


Muscle Memory

by irisbleufic, leaper182



Category: Back to the Future (Movies), Back to the Future: The Game
Genre: Alternate Timelines, Canon Compliant, Crossing Timelines, Divergent Timelines, Established Relationship, First Time, M/M, Not Canon Compliant, Time Travel, Timelines
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-19
Updated: 2015-05-29
Packaged: 2018-03-31 08:33:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 62,650
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3971158
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/irisbleufic/pseuds/irisbleufic, https://archiveofourown.org/users/leaper182/pseuds/leaper182
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>"Then why were we kissing, Doc?" Marty demanded. "I think I'd remember kissing you before</i> actually<i> kissing you!"</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 1986

**Author's Note:**

> This is an accidental collaboration, but neither of your authors is complaining. Otherwise, all you really need to know is that we decided to keep Doc's birth-year as 1920 just like it is in the films, so the 1931 section of the video game is therefore re-dated as 1938 to remain in keeping with mainline canon. It's set post- _Back to the Future_ Trilogy and post- _Back to the Future: The Game_ , so if you're curious enough to watch a play-through on YouTube, that's [**here**](https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLCdcBwzARVX2Dx4NFNcrCy4XNP79Qaxwz). Not required, however, as we've attempted to build sufficient context-bearing info into the narrative. Knowledge of the films is probably enough otherwise.
> 
>  **ETA:** If anyone's curious about the mention of Xymos, it's actually part of the plot from  Prey by Michael Crichton.

The kiss started out frantic, _needy_ , teeth painfully clashing on first attempt. Marty was clinging to the front of somebody's shirt with shaking fists, abruptly uncertain of how he'd gotten there. He didn't care if he was going to be sore from having to twist himself over the DeLorean's center console. He didn't care if he sounded like a racehorse, what with how he had to breathe through his nostrils just to maintain the kiss. He didn't care if he was smashing his nose—

Somebody's warm, strong hand cupped his jaw. Careful fingers slipped into his hair, stroking like they had all the time in the world. The tongue brushing against his slowed down, turning desperation into something softer, gentler, and _infinitely_ more soothing.

Marty didn't think having someone else's tongue in his mouth had ever calmed him down before.

Inhaling deeply while his tongue continued to move, Marty relaxed his grip, feeling crisp cotton under his fingers. A familiar whiff of Doc's peculiar, yet pleasant aftershave tickled his nose—

Marty pulled back, taking in wide brown eyes that looked as startled as he felt.

" _Doc_...?" he ventured weakly. He couldn't even manage an explanation for this.

Doc cleared his throat. "Yes?" he asked, sounding like the kiss had left him faint.

"What the hell just happened?" Marty demanded. "How long have we been…?"

Doc breathed in slowly, shaking his head. "I don't know," he admitted hesitantly.

"I mean—" Marty began, cutting himself short, his thoughts gracelessly colliding. "That was actually pretty great. Don't get me wrong, but I just..." He shook his head, hoping the gesture would help them to make sense of the situation. " _We_ just—"

Doc nodded. "I know. This is, I believe, what you would call _heavy._ "

"But we—" Marty frowned. "You're married!" He hadn't meant to sound so accusing, but he ended up barreling on. "You have kids! And Einstein!"

"And you're still seeing Jennifer," Doc added, turning to stare out the windshield again.

Marty nodded quickly, clinging to that fact in the hope that something, _anything_ about this situation might start to make sense. "That's right! I'm still seeing Jennifer! And there's no _way_ that I'd—" He found he couldn't finish the sentence; not because he felt sickened by the fact that he'd kissed Doc, but because he couldn't imagine hurting Jennifer that way.

Also, the revelation that he wasn't as straight as he'd thought was throwing Marty for a loop.

Doc shook his head. "All right, we just need to calm down and figure out what's going on."

"Doc?" Marty ventured, both his tone and his resolve wavering.

"Yes?" Doc replied uneasily, turning to raise an eyebrow at him.

"Did that feel—" Marty felt his stomach twist, thinking of the look Jennifer would give him if she were ever to find out "—natural to you? Or am I imagining things?"

Doc frowned. "If you mean when taken into account with the overall spectrum of human sexuality—"

"Us!" Marty prompted impatiently. "I meant _us_ , Doc! Kissing like there's no tomorrow!"

Doc looked like he was about to start lecturing him, but then stopped. "Great Scott, you're right."

"I am?" Marty asked, vaguely mortified that what he really wanted was to kiss Doc again.

Doc nodded, and Marty could see him starting to put the pieces together. "Something has happened in our personal timelines, something that’s changed our relationship to include a romantic element, possibly even a sexual one." He frowned. "Right now, as of this _very_ moment, can you remember any alterations to either your timeline _or_ to mine?"

Marty shook his head numbly, his brain still trying to wrap itself around _sexual_ and _Doc_ in the same sentence. "Do _you_?"

"Damn." Doc scowled. "It might be that whatever has changed hasn’t caught up with us yet."

"Then why were we kissing, Doc?" Marty demanded. "I think I'd remember kissing you before _actually_ kissing you!"

"Not necessarily," Doc said, shaking his head. "There have been case studies where people suffering from amnesia subconsciously retain memories and eventually rediscover skills they didn't know they had."

"What, you mean like muscle memory?" Marty asked, beginning to understand.

"Exactly." Doc nodded, looking pleased before wandering off on another scientific tangent. "Of course, for muscle memory to exist in our case, we would've had to have kissed quite often, possibly _hundreds_ of times, before it would have begun to take effect—"

"Hundreds of times?" Marty blurted. "You mean to tell me that we've been together long enough that our muscles _remember_ us kissing each other?"

"It's not that unheard of," Doc chided. "I knew _exactly_ how to kiss you to calm you down. That wasn't a first kiss by any stretch of the imagination."

Hearing Doc state it in such frank terms, Marty felt the butterflies in his stomach multiply.

"Considering my limited experience with romance, let alone the physical aspects thereof," Doc continued, as if Marty weren't staring at him, wide-eyed, just a passenger seat away, "I've most likely become an expert at kissing _you specifically_ , and that would take time to perfect."

Marty tried not to think about how hard he was blushing, and failed miserably. "But...?"

Doc nodded as if Marty had actually managed a whole sentence. "There's the issue of Clara and Jennifer, of course. Now, given that both of us have shown monogamous tendencies in the past, either we're now together and polyamorous in this timeline, making allowances for other romantic relationships—Clara and Jennifer respectively—or we're _monogamous_ together, and Clara and Jennifer don't enter into the picture."

Marty wasn't sure how he felt about that. Time traveling with Doc, sharing these wild adventures, he could understand why it might be easier _not_ to date Jennifer. There was no telling if something he'd done in the past had affected her, or if something in the future was going to hurt her in some way. What was worse, he and Doc were probably the only ones who remembered the original timeline. Hell, Clara wouldn't even have _lived_ if they hadn't saved her.

Marty frowned. "Wait, if we're together in this timeline—um, _monogamous_ together—wouldn't that mean that Clara ended up dying at the Ravine after all?"

Doc considered that with a frown. "I don't see why she should have. We rescued Clara before she and I were attracted to each other, after all. If you and I had been romantically involved at the time, it could be that I might have been merely _tempted_ to pay my addresses to her—"

Marty felt completely ridiculous for the sudden stab of jealousy he felt over that.

"—but at the end of the day, it's the two of us who are traveling through time together," Doc finished with a philosophical shrug. "We've already seen firsthand that small decisions we didn't even think twice about could have serious repercussions, and not just for us."

"That…makes sense," Marty said hesitantly, rubbing the back of his neck. "I mean, how would we know if Clara and Jennifer were part of our lives now, anyway?"

Doc squeezed his shoulders, so Marty looked him in the eye. "Marty, it's all right."

"It doesn't _feel_ all right, Doc." Marty shook his head. "I mean, one minute, we're flying away from a desert research facility that we helped reduce to a burning crater, and the next…" His voice trailed off, his gaze drifting back down to Doc's lips.

"Life-affirming physical activity is common after surviving potentially fatal experiences," Doc said, sounding entirely too reasonable for a man who was cupping Marty's cheek.

Marty couldn't help a slightly embarrassed smile, looking up into Doc's warm eyes. "I guess we should be lucky the DeLorean's too cramped for _that_ kind of stuff, huh?"

"I might have taken you up on it if you'd turned up during the forties, if it wouldn't have gotten us arrested," Doc admitted with a sigh, letting his hand drop from Marty's cheek, returning his attention to the time circuits. "I might’ve proved more adventurous then; I was definitely more reckless in my twenties. But nowadays, the physical angles needed to make it worthwhile for both of us just aren't feasible in the DeLorean. We'd need a bed at the bare minimum."

The idea of him and Doc sharing a bed was starting to fray at Marty's tattered nerves. The kicker was that he wasn't sure if he was imagining what it would be like, or if he was _remembering_. "Why aren't you more bothered by this?" he asked bluntly.

Doc blinked at him, seemingly perplexed. "By what?"

Marty motioned between the two of them impatiently. "This! _Us_ , remember?"

Doc shot him a look that suggested he was disappointed in Marty for even asking that question. "Marty, I knew that time-traveling by myself meant that there might be changes to my personal timeline. While I miss Clara and the boys, we still don't have all the facts about what kind of relationship we have. It could very well be that Clara is happily married to someone else."

"But doesn't that _bother_ you?" Marty asked, not sure he wanted to hear the answer.

Doc considered that for a long moment before he sighed. "On some level, yes. But it doesn't negate the fact that our relationship has changed drastically, in such a way that might even fill that void." He glanced over at Marty, and then cleared his throat. "The way I see it, we can either try to figure out what’s been altered in our joint personal timeline and attempt to change it back **,** or we can wait for the memories to catch up with us and see where they lead."

Marty shot him a sour look. "We wouldn't even know _when_ to start looking."

"At least not until the memories catch up." Doc gave him a hopeful smile. "There are instances when the wisest thing is to let time run its course, and then figure out what to do from there."

"That's a switch," Marty said, huffing out a laugh in spite of himself. "Usually, I can't turn around without tripping over something that I need to fix right away."

Doc shrugged. "Ever since Clara and I got the time train working, I’ve gotten pretty good at tourism."

"Now, that _definitely_ doesn't sound like you." Marty looked out his window at the billowing smoke and sand, and then looked back at Doc with raised eyebrows.

"This was a special case," Doc said. "The nano-swarms Xymos was manufacturing were going to reach Hill Valley in two months and turn it into a ghost town. They needed to be stopped."

Marty held up his hands in surrender. "Hey, I'm not complaining. It's just that we're not usually so…" He glanced outside again, his gut twisting at the idea of Hill Valley disappearing off the face of the earth because of one biotech company wanting to outdo its competitors.

"Destructive, I know," Doc muttered. "The loss of life was _completely_ unacceptable—"

"Doc, they were going to kill us," said Marty, defensively, finding his voice had gone rough. "That Ricky guy was threatening you with a gun, and that's not even getting into what they were doing to the other people at the facility."

"I know, Marty." Doc reached over without looking and squeezed his hand reassuringly.

"Doc, I am _sick_ of seeing you get shot while I just stand there and watch," Marty snapped, slipping his hand out from under Doc's, grabbing the front of Doc's shirt just like before. "And if you _ever_ pull a stunt like that again without telling me—"

"They needed to think that I'd been neutralized," Doc said, his voice soothing and _entirely_ too reasonable as he turned his attention back to Marty.

"You got shot, and then they sicced those nano-bot things on you!" Marty said sharply. "You were _covered_ in them! It was like some kind of cloud!"

"I'm sorry, Marty," Doc murmured, reaching up to run his fingers through Marty's hair. "I didn't have time to tell you the plan, and, before I knew it, I had to set things in motion—"

It had been one thing to find himself suddenly kissing Doc without remembering how they had even started, but it was something altogether different to kiss him because he was annoyed and afraid and _so relieved_ that both of them had made it out of there alive.

Marty kissed him firmly, pouring as much of his frustration into the gesture as he could. He could feel the moment Doc tried to slow things down again, but Marty was too irritated to let him get away with it a second time. With a groan, Marty pulled back long enough to manage, "You'd better find a bed, or else we're going to find out just how flexible I am."

Doc took a shuddering breath, his grasp tightening. "Marty—"

Marty shut him up with another kiss, reaching down blindly to get a general idea of where the gear shift was in the center console. The fewer body parts they whacked into stuff, the better.

This time, Doc pulled back, his breathing loud in the confines of the car. Marty tried to close the distance between them again, but Doc gripped his shoulders firmly. "Marty, this is—"

Marty gritted his teeth; if only they weren't both so damn stubborn. " _Dammit_ , Doc—"

Doc shot him an annoyed look before leaning in to press a gentle kiss against Marty's neck.

Marty whimpered, his eyes fluttering shut as a shiver ran through him. _That_ was more like it.

"Now, are you going to _listen_ to me," Doc said, "or are we going to have to delay this further?"

"We can make it work," Marty muttered, fighting off another shiver as Doc repeated the action. Wrapping a hand around the back of Doc's neck, Marty leaned his head back to give Doc more room. "I'm quick-thinking, Doc, but you're a _genius_. Don't tell me we can't figure this out."

Doc exhaled against Marty’s neck, the warm breath tickling his skin, before dotting a trail of soft kisses up to Marty's ear. "Marty, you deserve far more than a—what would people call it these days, a _quickie_?—in the DeLorean."

Marty's eyes snapped open. He hadn't known what he'd been expecting when he'd felt Doc's lips brush against his ear, heard a whisper that could easily have inspired any number of wet dreams. He'd been _ready_ to be seduced; nonetheless, he found himself sliding his arms around Doc's shoulders, hoping that Doc couldn't see how badly he was blushing.

Doc pulled back enough to kiss his cheek and press their foreheads together.

Marty closed his eyes, shaking his head with an embarrassed chuckle. "I'm all right. Just—I can definitely believe we're together now. This is working _way_ too well. I don't want it to stop."

Doc huffed in amusement, shaking with silent laughter. "Does that mean you'll keep your hands to yourself long enough for me to find someplace to park?"

"We're pretty parked up here, aren't we?" Marty couldn't help grinning as he rested a hand on Doc's closest knee. He felt giddy, absolutely _elated_ in spite of how nervous he was otherwise.

"Sure, if you're exhibitionistic enough to risk entertaining the local authorities with a free show." At Marty's confused look, Doc nodded at the clouds of smoke gathering outside the DeLorean's windows. "These explosions can't have gone unnoticed, especially not if the facility had some kind of security alarm or tracking system," he added dryly.

"I think we can, ah, finish up a lot quicker than that, don't you?" Marty murmured, his hand sliding higher, until it reached Doc's thigh. He splayed his fingers, curious.

"You underestimate just how much time it'll take to relearn your body's reactions," Doc replied. The hand he set on top of Marty's, however, was gentle. "Or is it _remember_?"

Marty cleared his throat and shifted in his seat, trying to relieve some of the pressure resulting from the zip of his jeans, not having much luck. "Um, so where are we headed? Or _when_?"

Doc squeezed Marty's hand on his thigh once. "Returning to 1986 would be much safer than any alternative, staying put included. I still have the laboratory—" He paused for a moment. "Wait, wasn't there a scenario where all my things were being sold in an estate sale?"

Marty nodded. "It got fixed after we went to 1938. The timeline changed. Your dad created a scholarship for young scientists that you award to somebody in Hill Valley each year, so you and Clara kept a part-time residence in 1986."

Doc looked startled. "That wasn't part of the original timeline?" He looked like he was about to ask something else, but then adamantly shook his head. "No, never mind. I'm sure that those memories will catch up with me in their own time, if they will at _all_." He let go of Marty's hand on his thigh in order to punch numbers into the keypad. "What day did we leave?"

"May fifteenth," Marty offered, tempted to slide his hand even further in the direction it had been heading. Granted, the more distracted he rendered Doc, the more he'd distract _himself_.

Doc nodded, punching in a few more numbers. "Let's get back on the sixteenth. I, for one, would rather avoid those bizarre iterations of your future self turning up, if at all possible."

"Sounds like a plan," Marty said, watching the dashboard display. "One last thing before we go?"

Doc turned back to him with impatient, expectantly-raised eyebrows. "Yes?"

Marty leaned over and kissed him, sliding his hand up as far as he dared, stroking the inside of Doc's thigh deliberately with the side of his thumb. When Marty pulled back, he cleared his throat with some difficulty. Yeah, there was no ignoring how turned-on they were.

Doc shivered, tightening his grip on the steering wheel. "The less you distract me now, the more you can distract me later."

"But I _like_ distracting you now," Marty admitted, skimming his fingers slow and light against Doc's leg. "Being able to touch without you bouncing all over the place, distracting _me_..."

Doc let go of the steering wheel to stroke along Marty's jaw. "All you have to do is ask."

Marty wondered if this was a frequent argument between them—and then Doc kissed him.

With each of the kisses they'd shared leading up to this point, Doc had always been the one to ease things back to an even keel (when he wasn't using knowledge of Marty's weak points against him). _This_ kiss, though, was decidedly intense enough to melt Marty's spine.

By the time Doc pulled away, Marty was having trouble thinking anything at _all_.

Doc lifted Marty's hand from his thigh, kissing his palm. "Now, if you're finished…?"

Marty nodded, ridiculously proud that he'd been able to accomplish even _that_ much, considering his brain was just short of fried. Doc was so good at this shit it wasn’t fair.

Doc smiled, grabbing two pairs of sunglasses from an as-yet-unseen overhead compartment. He offered one of them to Marty, who accepted with unsteady fingers and slipped them on.

He started to count under his breath. "Temporal displacement in three, two, one…"

 

 

***

 

 

Marty stared at Doc's garage-turned-home, experiencing a surge of stage fright and feeling more than a little ridiculous about it. He'd been making out with Doc not ten minutes ago, overlooking the desert in 2002, and it was only now that they'd returned to familiar surroundings that he'd decided to freak out? _Great_. He had no sense of timing, and no sense of proportion, either.

"Marty," said Doc, pensively, the sound of his voice grounding Marty’s scattered attention.

Marty turned to Doc, who was watching him with a concerned expression. "Sorry, Doc, I don't know what's wrong with me. I'm over-thinking this."

Doc shook his head. "You don't need to apologize. I'm nervous as hell right now myself."

Marty had been about to say that he _did_ need to apologize, that he was being stupid for feeling so inexplicably nervous, but he felt his anxiety short-circuit in surprise. "You too?"

Doc nodded, his smile tinged with a little embarrassment. "You do realize that you don't have to go through with this, don't you? Hormones, explosions, and altered timelines aside, it's perfectly fine if we just head inside and take a load off. We deserve it after having saved Hill Valley."

Marty stared at him. Something monumental had shifted, and things were clicking into place.

Even after all the talking and kissing and groping, Doc was still watching out for him, taking care of him, making sure he was all right. Sex wasn't a foregone conclusion (even if Marty's hormones were all in favor). Paradoxically enough, knowing that there wasn't any pressure to take things up a level meant that his nervousness had begun to evaporate.

Hell, what had he been thinking? This was _Doc_. If Marty had tried to force himself to do something for which he wasn't ready, he was positive that Doc, of all people, would've been the one to put on the brakes before anything else had the chance to happen.

Marty surfaced from his epiphany to find that Doc had been rambling on about the metaphysics of romance, and figured that the best way to get Doc's attention back on course was to kiss him.

Doc made a surprised, curious noise against his lips before pulling away. "Marty?"

Marty smiled sheepishly. "I'm all right, Doc. Thanks. Why don't we try this over."

Doc frowned, his gaze sharpening as he squeezed Marty's shoulders. "Are you sure?"

"Yeah, Doc," Marty nodded, leaning in again. "I'm really sure. More than sure, even."

"That's a relief," Doc said, preventing another kiss by resting a finger against Marty's lips. "But the DeLorean doesn't have tinted windows, and it's the middle of a Friday afternoon."

Marty snorted, kissing Doc's finger instead. "One day, we're going to do something in the DeLorean. Mark my words. It'd be a wasted opportunity."

Doc grinned. "How do you know we haven't already?" Before Marty could reply, he took the keys out of the ignition and climbed out of the car.

Marty did the same, following Doc inside. He hoped that, of all the memories that had yet to catch up with them, _that_ one would be the first.

 

 

***

 

 

Marty didn't remember anything about the trip from the front door to the bedroom, except for Doc guiding him with one firm hand on Marty’s hip. They bumped into a wall or two on the way, and there was a door-jamb where Marty had lost his shirt and had unbuttoned Doc's in turn.

All the while, Doc pressed kisses to Marty's neck, his lips, _anywhere_ he could reach.

"Where the hell is the bed?" Marty moaned, grabbing Doc's shirt by the collar and dragging him down for another breathless kiss. "Don't tell me it's—" he let his head tip back with a gasp as Doc nipped at his neck "—hidden under some experiment."

"You should have a bit more faith in me than that," Doc chided him good-naturedly, grabbing Marty's backside and lifting him with ridiculous ease.

" _Jesus_ , Doc," Marty gasped. He wrapped his legs around Doc's waist, dizzy with the sudden, close contact, framing Doc's face with his hands. "Warn me next time."

"And miss seeing the expression on your face?" Doc replied, squeezing Marty mischievously. "Never. I wouldn't have the heart. I could study you all day."

"Bastard," muttered Marty, kissing him soundly, half wondering if Doc would retaliate.

The trip to bed went faster after that, Doc swiftly covering the distance. He plonked Marty down on the mattress, which remained a perpetual mess of unmade sheets no matter the timeline.

Marty righted himself in time to see Doc, mischievous and apprehensive all at once, climb onto the bed. For a moment, he thought that Doc would return to kissing him. Instead, Doc considered the waistband of Marty's jeans, bending to kiss his way up Marty's chest.

The feel of Doc's lips worrying at his left nipple and Doc's careful fingers rubbing lightly at his right delivered the sensual approximation of a lightning-strike. Marty made an undignified noise somewhere between a whimper and a shout, his back arching at the stimulation. Still, he had enough presence of mind to run his hands through Doc's hair, his fingers twitching and stroking by turns. Dimly, Marty was aware Doc had said his name in a slightly worried tone, so he moaned louder, hoping to communicate that he _definitely_ didn't want this to stop.

Doc's lips left his chest, trailing damply up to his shoulder before settling into the left side of his neck, alternating between light nips and sucking kisses that made Marty shiver.

" _Doc_ ," he gasped, his hand in Doc's hair tightening for a moment before he turned his head and tried to catch Doc's mouth with his own. He felt feverish, like his skin was too tight.

Doc got the message, pressing intermittent kisses against Marty's cheek, shifting around until he was propped on his elbows, with one thigh pressing tentatively between Marty's legs.

Marty gasped, his eyes squeezing shut at the exquisite pressure against him. He started to say _Jesus Christ_ , but it devolved into a moan when Doc's thigh began to rub at him more insistently. If Doc wasn't careful, he might—

"Do you even _know_ how you look?" Doc whispered, his kisses still maddeningly light.

Marty had enough presence of mind to respond in the negative; he was damn proud of managing that much. How he'd ever thought _sexual_ and _Doc_ seemed improbable in the same sentence was beyond him now. Not only was Doc _incredible_ in the sack, he was still _Doc_.

Doc kissed Marty deeply, rolling his hips into each motion until they were flush with Marty's. "What do you want?" he murmured, pulling back just long enough to study Marty's eyes, that hint of apprehension emerging for the briefest instant. " _Anything_ , Marty. Just tell me—"

"The rest of our _clothes_ , Doc!" Marty groaned in frustration, tugging weakly at Doc's shirt. "We've gotta take 'em off. _Now_."

Doc looked startled before he leapt into action. "Right, sorry—" He carefully lifted himself off of Marty in order to sit up, undoing the button fly of Marty's jeans before easing the zipper down.

Marty squeezed his eyes shut, all at once relieved that his jeans weren't putting pressure on his dick anymore and trying desperately not to come on the spot because Doc's fingers were tracing his length as his fly parted. He whimpered as Doc's fingers skimmed maddeningly back over him to peel away the waistband of his underwear.

"I’d like to amend that to _teasing_ bastard, thanks," Marty panted, trying to make his shaking hands cooperate, because he needed to get his pants _off_ , and Doc suddenly discovering he was a strip-tease mastermind wasn't helping. He fumbled once before he succeed in shoving his thumbs under the waistband of both his jeans and his underwear.

Marty managed to arch his back just long enough to skin off his jeans and underwear in one less-than-smooth motion, and then landed with a relieved groan, his erection finally free. He tried kicking off his jeans, but only managed to disentangle one leg before he stopped caring.

"That's a hell of a sight," Doc breathed, setting his palms gently against Marty's hipbones.

Marty's eyes snapped open. He'd been so busy basking in his newfound freedom, he'd forgotten that he had an audience. God, he hoped that meant Doc _liked_ what he was seeing.

"I never expected..." Doc continued in that awed tone before his gaze met Marty's. "You look like something out of that art history textbook I didn't pay enough attention to in college."

Marty blinked, trying to parse that sentence through his embarrassment. The best he could do was zero in on the strangest part. "Art history textbook?" he echoed.

Doc's grin practically lit up the room. "I took art history as an elective." He shifted closer, letting his hands slide from Marty's hipbones to his ribs. "And the professor was dull beyond words."

Marty bit his lip, shivering when Doc's fingers found a ticklish spot. "The horror, Doc. _Anything_ but that," he managed. "Unless you want me too busy laughing to do anything else."

"I'll have you know that an excellent teacher can make all the difference," Doc said, his mischievous grin at odds with his haughty tone, "between a chore and a lifelong passion."

"Speaking of chores," Marty muttered, tugging pointedly on Doc's shirt. "You're still dressed."

"Makes it easier for me to admire you," Doc replied with a shrug, his tone shockingly candid.

Marty felt his cheeks getting warm as he shot Doc a look that said he _wasn't_ made for admiring, thanks. None of the data he had from years and years of social interactions supported that theory—unless you counted Jennifer, but he was beginning to suspect she was an anomaly along the same lines as Doc. A moment later, inspiration struck. "Well, if you're going to admire me, shouldn't you get closer?" He tried to arch into Doc's touch, hoping he didn't look too ridiculous.

Doc's dark eyes narrowed, somewhat guarded, but Marty could tell he was still fiercely curious. "What an excellent idea," he concluded mildly, bracing his hands on either side of Marty as he leaned in to kiss Marty's neck. He seemed to like doing that; Marty wasn’t about to complain.

Marty counted to three before he grabbed Doc by the shoulders and flipped them over. Doc let out a huff of air when he landed, but didn't look terribly surprised. _Pleased_ was more like it.

"Let's see what you've got hidden away," said Marty, grinning, sitting up and sliding his hands underneath Doc's open shirt. "You've had the chance to look your fill. Fair is fair."

Doc sighed, shaking his head with reluctance and a hint of regret. "I'm not nearly as flexible as you are, I'm afraid. If you want me naked, you'll have to let me up."

Marty leaned in to drop a soft, lingering kiss on his lips. "What if I wanted to pay you back for all the torture, huh?" At Doc's questioning noise, Marty grinned again and started kissing his way down Doc's neck, slipping his hands under the lapels of Doc's shirt.

When Doc's hands found his hips, Marty shook his head. "Oh _no,_ you don't. You said all I had to do was ask." He moved just enough to drop a kiss on the tip of Doc's nose. "Now, I'm asking."

Doc looked bewildered for a moment before he understood. With a put-upon sigh that wasn't as heartfelt as it sounded, he held up his hands in surrender. "Fine, then. I'm a man of my word."

"Great." Marty kissed him, pressing Doc's wrists to the mattress at his sides. "Leave 'em there."

The scrape of his teeth against Doc's neck got him a contented hum, but when he tried what Doc had done to his nipples earlier, he felt Doc's fingers stroke through his hair.

Marty lifted his head while returning Doc's arm to his side. "Ah ah _ah_ , Doc. No cheating."

"It's not my fault _you've_ inspired me to do so," Doc replied, using those eyes of his to look as innocent as possible. Considering how often Doc tended to get in _and_ out of tricky situations—

Marty couldn't help laughing. "You used that look to get out of trouble as a kid, didn't you."

"It didn't work nearly as often as you might think," Doc admitted with a smile. "But I digress, and _grievously_ so. I believe you were in the middle of something…?"

Marty grinned at him. "I was, yeah." He returned his attention to Doc's nipples, just to see if Doc would keep his hands to himself. When he heard Doc inhale slowly, Marty pressed a kiss to the middle of his chest and started making his way down to Doc's stomach.

"Ah, _Marty_ ," Doc gasped when Marty nibbled just under his navel. He let out a moan when he felt Marty working at the fly of his pants, his hands tightening into fists. "Marty, _please_ —"

Marty eased the zipper down, watching the teeth separate all the way to the end. For a moment, he was tempted to stare at Doc's erection, even trapped as it was in cotton, but Doc gripping two fistfuls of bed-sheet reminded him that he could be doing something a _lot_ more interesting.

There was a part of Marty's mind that still boggled at the idea that he was even _doing_ this, let alone doing it with Doc. He'd shied away from thinking about it with Jennifer, but now, here in Doc's bed—no, _their_ bed—it didn't feel so strange or overwhelming. Before he could start over-thinking things like he had earlier, Marty braced his arms over Doc's hips and leaned in close, gingerly nuzzling the warm cotton before breathing against it.

The effect on Doc was immediate. He let out a choked gasp, the resulting thrust of his hips cut short by his futile attempt at restraint. " _Marty_ ," he pleaded, biting his lip.

Marty grinned, not caring if Doc saw his expression or not, and rested more of his weight against Doc's hips. "Sorry, Doc," he said, pressing his lips against Doc's cloth-covered erection, and making sure to breathe as firmly as possible against it. "What was that?"

The only indication Marty had that he was in trouble was a low, possessive _groan_ before Doc's hands pulled him away from his prize and into another slow, electrifying kiss.

Marty pulled away just long enough to whisper, "That's cheating again. FYI."

"I don't _care_ ," Doc muttered before pressing his lips to Marty's. He cheated in _earnest_ by drawing Marty closer, his hands warm and strong as he carefully guided Marty onto his back.

Marty felt the bed shift as Doc shifted to straddle him, but he grabbed the waistband of Doc's pants. "Wait—" His eyes fluttered at Doc's sharp, teasing kiss against his neck, but he tugged on the offending fabric. "Pants, Doc. We haven't done a great job at the whole undressing thing."

Doc must've had enough by then, because he snapped, frustrated—"Give me a minute!"—before getting up. He finished the job, leaving both his pants and his underwear on the floor.

Marty watched raptly. Doc might've been in his sixties, but he'd always appeared to be in unusually great shape for his age. What’s more, the rejuvenation treatments he'd undergone in 2015—the results of which were nearly invisible, as far as Marty could tell— _might_ have helped. And with all of the exercise he got on a regular basis, between inventing things and trying not to get himself killed while traveling through time, Doc looked _more_ than tempting.

"Shirt," Marty reminded him, taking a tense breath as he lazily stroked his erection.

Doc divested himself of his unbuttoned shirt, tossing it on the floor. Climbing back onto the bed with a stern look and mischief in his eyes, he leaned in close and brushed a kiss against Marty's lips. "Any _other_ objections, Future Boy? Or can we get back to the business at hand?"

Marty grinned. "Thought you'd never ask." He slid his other hand around the back of Doc's neck, tugging him down for a longer, more thorough kiss that quickly gained momentum.

The brush of Doc's fingers against his stomach was Marty's only warning before they wrapped around his erection. Pulling away from the kiss for some air, Marty let out an urgent whimper.

Doc took the hint. He pressed the next sequence of kisses against Marty's cheek, jaw, and neck before picking one spot to suck, all tongue and teeth, making Marty moan and shiver under him.

Between Doc's kisses and Doc's fingers alternating between wrapping around him firmly and lightly tracing his skin, it was almost too much. Even though, in this timeline, he and Doc had technically been together long enough to have figured out how to drive each other crazy, this was different. Right here, right _now_ , he didn't have those memories, and it was kind of overwhelming. Before this moment, when it was just him and his hand, Marty had prided himself on having decent stamina, but now, he was a shaking wreck who couldn't string two syllables together. Judging from the way Doc was touching him, that effect was completely intentional.

Well, lying back and letting his first orgasm with someone else just _happen_ to him wasn't in the cards. Unfortunately, because his brain was rapidly turning to mush, the best Marty could manage was to wrap his arms around Doc's shoulders. " _Hnnn_ —"

Doc hummed, shifting just enough to get a firmer grip on Marty, his lips brushing against Marty's ear. "Marty? Does that feel all right?" he asked, sounding concerned.

Marty bit his lip, squeezing his eyes shut, trying to think of baseball statistics, racing outcomes, all of the most unsexy things he could _possibly_ dredge up. The way Doc was murmuring in his ear should've been _illegal,_ and it was almost worse because he wasn't even trying to be. It was maddening how close he was to getting off _just_ as a result of Doc's voice in his ear.

"I see," Doc murmured, understanding, as if Marty had given him a detailed explanation. The lips against Marty's ear were gentle, but Doc's fingers around him were sure, moving just a little faster. The bed shifted again—Doc lay down against Marty's left side, settling—and Doc's hand cupped Marty's cheek, turning Marty's head just a little before his thumb lightly brushing Marty's lower lip. "You don't need to hold back with me," he whispered reassuringly.

Marty shook his head, feeling the telltale tension in his gut begin to build. He'd always found it a bit embarrassing how quickly he'd go from zero to biting back an orgasm when things got hot and heavy; fortunately, his only previous audience had been with, well, _himself_. For Doc's sake, he'd better find a way to build up more staying power than _this_ —

"As gratifying as it is to watch you overwhelmed by sensory input, Marty," Doc said, his voice dropping to that low, indescribable murmur again, "I want to see you _satisfied._ "

Marty gasped, squeezing his eyes shut tight, and came with a helpless shout.

Doc's fingers worked him through it, careful and sure until Marty sank bonelessly back onto the bed. Just as Marty was about to rest his hand against his stomach like he usually did when he got himself off, he found Doc's was already there, moving in slow, even strokes.

"How do you feel?" Doc asked, kissing Marty's forehead. "Is there anything else I can do?"

Marty gave a half-hearted groan that he _hoped_ conveyed the fact that he was _so_ perfectly all right that he was incapable of coherent speech. As it was, he turned on his side and pressed a kiss to Doc's chin since it was the closest part of him that he could reach. He shifted again, his fingers exploring Doc's chest and shoulders with determination. Surfacing from his post-coital haze, Marty trailed both hands from Doc's chest to his belly.

"Marty," Doc said breathlessly, closing his eyes. Doc’s muscles quivered beneath Marty’s touch until Doc reached up and pressed Marty's hands firmly against his stomach. " _Wait_ —"

Annoyance cut through the aforementioned post-coital haze more effectively than anything else in their present circumstances. When Doc didn't offer an explanation for why he was stalling, Marty kept his hands firmly pressed against Doc's stomach and looked at him. "Doc?"

Doc opened his eyes, looking worried. "I need you to know, right now, that whatever we may or may not have done in the past _doesn't_ have to dictate how we proceed from this point."

Marty blinked at him, startled by Doc's abrupt statement. If Doc was anywhere near as turned on as he had been about a minute ago, which it seemed like he possibly _wasn't_ , then something must have happened to make him think about this. "Doc? Are you feeling all right?"

Doc stared at him before shaking his head slowly. "Yes and no. I mean—not _exactly_."

Marty frowned, an uncomfortable hint of worry flaring in his chest. "Not exactly?"

"If we've been together long enough for both of us to have developed—muscle memory, as we're calling it—then when did this relationship _start_?" Doc wondered aloud.

Marty opened his mouth, and then found himself momentarily speechless. "We might…I dunno, have something really unexpected and intense that's only just begun, relatively speaking?" That would blow the we've-kissed-hundreds-of-times theory out of the water, but maybe kissing _dozens_ of times was all you really needed. Hell, he'd kissed Jennifer enough to know _that_.

Doc shot him a look expressing just how unlikely he thought that was. "I'm not so sure."

"What?" Marty asked defensively. "Anything's possible! Just like you're always telling me, a good scientist would allow for that. If you can't rule it out, you shouldn’t be knocking it."

Doc's stern expression didn't change. "Just how long _have_ we known each other?"

"Two years and change," Marty said without having to think about it. "Almost three. Prior to our 1955 interaction complicating matters, we met the summer I turned fifteen."

Doc nodded in agreement, and then looked startled. "I thought you'd just turned eighteen?"

" _June_ twelfth, Doc," Marty reminded him. "Not May. My birthday’s about a month off."

Doc looked roughly like he'd been shot, which, after all they'd been through, was _not_ a thought Marty wanted to have ever again. "Great Scott. This is a potential disaster for _both_ of us."

Marty didn't like where this was going. "Doc, _please_ don't tell me you're getting cold feet—"

"Cold feet?" Doc repeated blankly. "You're the one who keeps sticking freezing toes up against my calves at night—" He stopped suddenly, his expression stuck somewhere between terrified and having-a-lightbulb-moment. "And anywhere else you can stick them, for that matter."

Marty blinked at him in wonder. "Guess you remembered that _right_ before I did, huh?"

"Considering that you're never apologetic about using me as your personal space-heater, I'm not surprised," Doc said wryly. "It's all coming back to me now, slowly but surely."

Marty shrugged, giddy and a little embarrassed. "Sorry? It's not my fault you always run hot."

"Under these specific circumstances, however," Doc pointed out, "I'm fairly certain it _is_."

Marty tried to look innocent, but wasn't sure he'd succeeded. "Really?" He flexed his fingers where they were still pressed against Doc's stomach. "Is that something I should fix?"

Doc carefully pried Marty's hands away from his skin, kissing one palm, and then the other. "Marty, it's not something to _fix_. This relationship, what we have between us—we might have already navigated these conversations, already established a baseline for how we operate, but neither of us can remember. I want to make sure that there's absolutely no room for ambiguity."

When Doc didn't continue, Marty nodded. "That seems pretty sensible to me, Doc."

Doc nodded firmly, bringing Marty's hands together and wrapping his own around them. "Good. First and foremost, this isn't about duties owed or favors to be repaid. Whatever we do, wherever we do it, I'd prefer it to be because it's what we _want_. Whatever we've done before now, I assure you that I would only have assented if we’d both felt comfortable doing so."

Marty listened, nodding, but couldn't quite prevent the frown he knew he wore. "Okay, just to be clear, I was trying to be subtle about getting us back on track instead of just grabbing your—"

Doc cleared his throat. " _Yes_ , I appreciate the sentiment. Thanks for your circumspection."

Marty half-smiled at him. "I kind of figured you would." With his hands still held between Doc's, he tried tugging gently. When Doc let go, he scooted a little closer and rested one hand on Doc's hip and the other just below his navel. "Is this okay?" he asked, cautiously stroking.

Doc leaned in to brush a kiss against Marty's lips. "We'll need to talk about this more in-depth, but for now…" He inhaled sharply, shivering, his fingers tightening on Marty's shoulders.

Marty couldn't help smirking a little, unable to ignore the fact that the backs of his fingers were brushing against warm, taut skin that begged his attention. "But for now?"

"You wretched tease," Doc grumbled, pulling Marty closer. "Time isn't _always_ on your side."

"It's not?" Marty grinned, letting his fingers brush against Doc again. "Why do you say that?"

Doc trembled under Marty's touch, leaning forward with considerable urgency. " _Marty_ —"

"Aw. _C'mon_ , Doc." Marty felt like he'd made a winning touchdown, and he didn't even play football. He slid his hand around his prize, cradling it for a moment, trying not to think about the fact that this was the first time (that he remembered, anyway) touching someone else's dick. And not just _any_ someone else; in his world, Doc was the exact opposite. He was _everything_.

Doc gritted his teeth, thrusting reflexively into Marty's palm before he could prevent himself from doing so. He shuddered, so tense it made Marty's heart clench. "Marty, _please_ —"

"Relax, Doc," Marty said, trying to get a better grip. He tried to think of what Doc had said to him earlier when their positions had been reversed. "No holding back, remember?"

Just as Marty leaned in to press a gentle kiss against Doc's lips, Doc took Marty's face in both hands, giving him the fiercest, most _desperate_ kiss imaginable. Doc pulled back a moment later, meeting Marty’s questioning gaze, letting out a choked gasp as he came all over Marty's hand.

Shivering, Doc squeezed his eyes shut tight as Marty stroked him, shaking his head unsteadily before reaching down and guiding Marty's hand away. "Too much," he rasped.

"Jeez," Marty breathed, embarrassed that he hadn't stopped sooner. "Sorry—"

Doc shook his head again. "It's fine, Marty," he managed. "Really. _More_ than."

Marty sat up, pressing his hands against Doc's shoulders until Doc flopped onto his back, looking pleasantly dazed. "Are you sure?" he asked. "Because you look—"

One dark eye opened indolently. "Quite sure," Doc murmured. "Now bask with me a while."

Marty nodded, feeling pretty proud of the fact that Doc looked ready to sink into the mattress. He fished over the side of the bed to grab Doc's shirt from the floor, and then righted himself long enough to clean them up before pitching the shirt back where he'd found it.

"Bask with you, huh?" Marty asked, not above stroking his own ego for a job well done. He scooted closer to Doc, shifting until his head rested against Doc's shoulder and his right hand could effortlessly trace nonsensical designs against Doc's stomach.

Doc let out an exhalation of laughter before reaching up to still Marty's fingers. "Bask with me," he repeated, murmuring his agreement. " _Rest_ with me. We deserve it."

"You're not going to feel guilty about this, are you?" Marty replied, glad that he couldn't look Doc in the eye at that moment. Directing his question to the rest of the room instead of to Doc felt somehow safer, less accusatory. "Doc? What are you thinking?"

"I can't guarantee that I won't have concerns," Doc admitted, "but right here and now? No."

That must have been exactly what some part of Marty had been waiting to hear. No sooner had Doc said it than Marty stretched, curled close against him, and fell asleep.

 

 

***

 

 

Some hours later, Marty gingerly got up, rolling his shoulders back as he stretched. A glance over his shoulder showed that Doc was still dead to the world, his face half-buried in his pillow. In the dying evening light, Marty could see the muscle definition in Doc's back, his gaze tracing the lines until it fell upon the rumpled bed-sheet that just covered Doc's backside.

Standing up had earned Marty a sleepy murmur, but Doc settled back into sleep, one arm thrown out over the spot where Marty had been lying only moments before.

Marty grabbed a bathrobe that someone (had it been him, or had it been Doc?) had thrown over the couch in the living-and-bedroom area, slipping into it as he looked around.

The garage-turned-home didn't look all that different from when Marty had originally seen it before all of their time-travel adventures had begun. Everything was a cramped mishmash of experiments, furniture, notes, and dirty dishes, with the occasional takeout container for added decoration. Marty had been about to go back to the vicinity of the bed and see if he could spot any differences there, before spying a book he didn't recognize.

It had handsome dark-blue leather binding, with stiff pages thickened by some kind of scrap-booking (or at least it _reminded_ Marty of the scrap-booking his mom did, at a glance).

Marty opened the front cover, hoping he wouldn't dislodge anything: _E.L. BROWN & M.S. MCFLY_, it read in embossed capitals. That detail was Doc's old-fashioned flair, he supposed.

"Huh," Marty said, turning the page, feeling a spark of excitement at what he might find.

Much like any family photo album, it began with baby pictures, although Emmett's pictures weren't as numerous as Marty's. Marty flipped pages, watching Emmett grow from a tiny, inquisitive child into a lanky, inquisitive teenager, his smile broad, his freckles barely visible as he posed with his parents for formal shots.

It was then that Marty spotted _his_ first picture in the album.

He was dressed in the kind of formal attire that Emmett had been wearing in the earlier pictures, with the nervous smile of someone who was absolutely positive they weren't supposed to be there. Emmett stood next to him, the wild hair that he'd gotten at the Hill Valley Expo pomaded into something resembling his previous hairdo. The height difference between them was less pronounced. Emmett beamed into the camera, looking like he was one step away from throwing his arms around Marty in sheer excitement.

The caption read, _Emmett and Marty, October 1938_.

In the next picture, Emmett appeared to be slightly older. The caption under the picture read, _Introducing Doc Brown! June 1947_. Unlike typical cap-and-gown graduation photos that Marty had seen of his older brother and sister in the McFly family photo album, Emmett was dressed in a suit and tie, his red hair sporting some serious hints of pallor at the sides.

The third picture looked familiar. Marty didn't need the caption to know that it had been taken in November of 1955. By that point, Doc's hair had gone completely white.

 _Introducing Marty McFly. August 23, 1983_. The photo showed Marty: surly, painfully awkward at fifteen, with an unfortunate mullet and the beginnings of an impressive zit on his chin.

After 1985, Marty was startled to find that there were only a few more pictures left. Instead of Marty looking as young as he did now, it was _Emmett_ who didn't age.

Marty in his twenties, his hair cropped short, sporting an unlit cigarette as he frowned at the DeLorean's engine and used a rag to wipe grease off his hands.

Marty, baby-faced at age thirty or so, attending a New Year's party with Doc. Obviously tipsy, with the year 2000 plastered all over banners in the background. The caption read, _Y2K or Bust!_

And then Marty at perhaps forty (more solid about the middle, but nonetheless looking comfortable in his skin) as Emmett stood with him, both of them beaming. They were at some kind of cabin on a lake, because there were a few more pictures that had been taken at the same location: Emmett napping in a rocking chair, a black and white border collie that was half-covered in mud, and the two of them laughing while Emmett held the camera at an awkward angle.

Marty at forty-seven looked like he'd borrowed a square jaw from some comic book hero. His hair had darkened, but it also showed hints of grey. In this one, he was standing in front of the Hill Valley Courthouse with Emmett, the two of them in tuxedos. The caption read, _June 26, 2015. No more waiting._

He looked up at the sound of bare feet, was met with a yawn. "Marty? What are you doing?"

Marty studied Doc, who was dressed in a belted robe of his own, regarding him with sleepy curiosity. "Hey, Doc. I thought you were down for the count."

"I was," Doc admitted, sitting down next to him on the couch. "And then I noticed that you weren't there. What's this?"

"Photo album," Marty said, flipping it to the beginning before transferring it to Doc's lap, scooting closer to him. "Looks like we've got plenty of creative ideas about romance."

Doc shot him a confused frown before looking down at the photo album. His eyes widened at the picture of the two of them in 1938. "Do you remember taking this?"

Marty shook his head. "It looks like it's after the Expo, what with your hair and all. I guess the memory of having done it hasn't caught up with me yet. Who knows when I took the trip? I mean, some of these? We would've had to have _stolen_ them from our future selves. Or even from our past selves, for all I know. The unanswered questions here are _staggering_ , Doc."

Doc made a distracted noise, flipping through the pictures until he got to the end. Then he turned to look at Marty, a little wild in the eyes. "Why would we have this? This is the kind of thing we're not supposed to know about our own future. The jumps required to produce this record..."

Marty shrugged. "I dunno, Doc. Maybe we figured at some point it was better to time-travel to compile this album than to wonder how we were going to turn out? It's pretty damn neat."

"But any of this could change at any moment," Doc said, the wave of his hand encompassing the photo album. "I could get hit by a car. You could drop dead of a heart attack."

"Or maybe we live even longer than these pictures suggest," Marty replied, tapping the wedding photo with one finger.

"I would be ninety-five," Doc murmured. "And that's if I lived those years with you. The way this looks, either my rejuvenation treatment in the future—well, the alternate future now—was a resounding success, or I'm just naturally that long-lived."

"Hey." Marty nudged Doc with his shoulder. "I like the idea of growing old with you."

Doc smiled, sliding his arm around Marty's shoulders, holding him close. "I’m glad."


	2. 1955

**Saturday, November 5, 1955**

"Look, you've gotta listen to me!" Marty pleaded, chasing Doc down the driveway to the garage, nearly out of breath. No matter what year they were in, it seemed, Doc was _fast_.

"I've had enough practical jokes for one evening," he replied, dashing inside, keeping the door open just enough to fling one more insult before slamming it. "Good night, Future Boy!"

"No, wait, Doc— _Doc_!" Marty's thoughts spun wildly until he could lock onto the one thing that had seemed odd when he'd first laid eyes on Doc. "The bruise—the bruise on your head! I know how that happened; you told me the whole story!" He sank against the garage door, feeling the fight drain out of him. His mouth was the only part of him that had the will to keep going. "You were standing on your toilet, and you were hanging a clock, and you _fell_ , and you hit your head on the sink, and _that's_ when you came up with the idea for the flux capacitor, which…is what…" He smacked his hand against the door, ignoring how much it stung. "Makes time travel possible," he added, turning away in frustration.

The door flew open right next to his head, narrowly missing it. Doc's intense brown eyes stared unblinking into his, an unspoken interrogation. He looked for all the world like he knew something Marty didn't, and that, everything else aside, was _deeply_ unsettling.

"Get inside," Doc said, his usually expressive features gone grave and intent.

Marty did as he was told, shivering as the door slammed shut behind them. The garage looked much the same as it had in 1985, although there were some experiments Marty didn't recognize. It was strange to see some of the machines looking new and relatively whole instead of torn-apart and parceled out for scrap. Doc definitely knew how to recycle.

"What's your name, Future Boy?" Doc demanded, although his tone was less harsh than it had been when he'd slammed the door. And that in and of itself was a goddamn _relief_.

"Marty?" Marty offered tentatively, on-the-spot despite feeling like he'd finally made some progress. He cleared his throat. "Marty McFly," he continued, fighting the urge to add _sir_ at the end of his answer.

Marty had thought that maybe a straight answer would get Doc to calm down, but he froze where he stood instead, turning to stare at him. "Do you have a middle name, _Marty_?"

Okay, now it felt like he was on the wrong side of Principal Strickland. "My full name is Martin," said Marty, somewhat defiantly. "Martin Seamus McFly." He even got right up in Doc's face like he would've done at school. If Doc could rattle him, then he could rattle Doc.

Doc didn't look rattled. "Well, then, Martin Seamus McFly," he said, enunciating each syllable. "How do we know each other? I doubt you'd have come up here if we hadn't somehow met."

Marty blinked, beginning to feel genuinely frightened and out of his depth. "What? _Doc_?"

"You heard me, Future Boy," Doc said with a sneer in his voice. "You obviously came to me thinking that I would help you. You keep calling me _Doc_ —" He bit the word off as if it were made of gristle. "So, how do we know each other? You'd better make it snappy, because I have a lot of pressing matters requiring my attention, and I don't have time for snot-nosed, smart-mouthed teenagers who think they can bang on my door at all hours of the night."

Marty's shoulders straightened, but his usual bravado was deflating fast. "We're friends—"

"Friends? Friends get in the way of work," Doc snapped, unblinking, but softer somehow.

"Listen to me, Doc," said Marty, as firmly as he could. "You've gotta trust me when I say this, and it's gonna sound absolutely _crazy_ , but—" He paused, realizing that something he'd said had already caused Doc's eyebrows to hit the ceiling. "We _have_ met. It's just that I can't—"

"On what date?" Doc asked. It was obvious he was beginning to remember _something_.

"Date?" Marty echoed weakly. _I didn't think I'd be tested on this_ , he thought. _Well, shit._

"On what date did we meet?" Doc pressed, his tone shifting ever closer to hushed awe.

Just like it did whenever he had a final, Marty's brain went blank. "It—it was summer. Oh, God, yeah, it was—that's it, it was when I turned fifteen, because Dad wouldn't take me to get my learner's permit for another six months. So, 1983. That's when it would've been."

Something died in Doc's eyes. "How can that be if it hasn't even happened yet?" He sounded numb, and it was starting to scare Marty more than being interrogated did. "By all reckoning I can account for, time travel or _no_ time travel, we're meeting for the first time _right now_."

Marty shook his head adamantly; if he were to spill everything he knew, everything he _actually knew_ , he'd die of shame. "Doc, you've gotta listen to me. We met when I broke into your garage— _this_ garage—because everybody kept telling me what a dangerous crackpot you were. I wanted to see for myself how much of it was true. If _any_ of it was true."

Doc spread his arms wide. "Well, how do you like the infamous crackpot now? Is this what you were hoping to see? I certainly trust I've managed to live up to your expectations; otherwise, this has been a colossal waste of time. Well done, Future Boy. _Well done._ "

"Doc, that was _two years ago!_ " Marty shouted, his nerves finally shot to the point that he'd stopped caring about being tough. He was scared, and, even with his best friend right in front of him, he felt more alone than he'd ever been in his life. "You were the first person who gave a damn about me! You actually cared if I studied and did well at school, and you built this enormous amplifier for me because you asked me what I wanted for my birthday!"

"You really don't remember, do you?" Doc asked plaintively, as if he'd finally broken, too.

" _Remember_?" Marty shouted back. His throat was starting to hurt, but it was an oddly satisfying kind of pain. "What the hell am I supposed to _remember_? You're the one from 1955, not me!"

Unexpectedly, Doc withdrew, hunching in on himself as if Marty had struck him. "Tell me what happened in 1946," he implored, so quietly that his voice had almost faded to a whisper.

"Nineteen-forty—" Marty stopped short, the date snagging on something at the back of his mind. There'd been a conversation the summer he'd met Doc, hadn't there—

 _"Why do you live in a garage?" Marty asked as he worked the three-quarters wrench around one of the bolts on an old coffeemaker._ Why _it had bolts on it, Marty didn't know, but he was bored, and Doc was doing some kind of fiddly work with a magnifying glass and tweezers._

_"Because my parents' house burned down," Doc said shortly, not looking up from his work._

_Marty knew that tone from whenever his dad's boss, Biff, demanded to know what he was staring at. He frowned, finally working one bolt free. "Did they die in it?" he blurted, glancing up a moment later and wincing apologetically._

_Doc didn't seem to notice. "No, they died in a car crash in 1946." He set the tweezers aside, turning to look at Marty with a brittle smile. "Now, do you have any other invasive personal questions?"_

_"You could ask me stuff if you want," Marty mumbled penitently. "Anything you want. Try me."_

_"That's very generous of you, but I'm not interested," Doc said magnanimously before turning back to his desk. "Besides, you're too young to have any skeletons in your closet."_

"Your parents," Marty said, closing his eyes because he couldn't bear to look at Doc as he replayed the conversation in his head. "They died in a wreck that year, Doc. I'm sorry."

The ensuing silence stretched too long for comfort. When Marty opened his eyes, he saw the Doc was standing, his own eyes closed, with one pale hand unsteadily clutching the back of his battered armchair for support. Marty had crashed in that very chair _hundreds_ of times.

Marty wasn't sure if he should intrude on what was obviously a private moment, but if Doc was standing still, then he needed to be dragged out of his thoughts before he drowned.

"Doc?" Marty ventured, taking a few steps closer. He needed to close the distance. _Badly._

Doc's dark eyes opened, fixing Marty with a stare that he couldn't interpret. There was some disappointment—he'd seen Doc look disappointed often enough when an invention didn't work—but there was some sadness, too. There were other emotions mixed in, but Marty was still too rattled from having seen Doc— _his_ Doc—get gunned down, from having traveled thirty years into the past, _and_ from being interrogated by a stranger wearing his best friend's face, to make sense of them. The best he could do was hold his breath and _wait_.

"Call _me_ crazy," said Doc, finally, too tired to fight any longer, "but I believe you."

Marty sighed explosively, suddenly longing for a chair to lean against. "Thank God. Now, are you gonna let me get to the part where I have a broken-down time machine to show you?"

Doc grinned at him, looking like his old self again. "Let's get going, kid. _That_ , I'd like to see."

 

**Tuesday, November 8, 1955**

"By the way, what happened today?" Doc said, goggles still on his face. "Did he ask her out?"

"I…think so," said Marty, with far more hope than confidence in his voice as he nodded.

Doc leaned in just a little, trying to hide his apprehensiveness. "What did she say?"

Three timid knocks sounded on the door. Doc looked over, pushing the goggles up onto his forehead, looking somewhat panicked. Still carrying the home-made fire extinguisher, he made his way to the door and tugged the blind aside. With a jump, he wheeled back to Marty. "It's your mom! She's tracked you down!" He propped the fire extinguisher against the wall. "Quick, let's cover the time machine!" They got the tarp over the DeLorean without a hitch, although the long pole sticking out of the back was something they just couldn't hide.

Making his way back to the door, Doc shot him a panicked look before turning the doorknob. As he stepped back, Lorraine pushed her way inside with a startled look, though Marty wasn't entirely sure why she should be so surprised. Knowing his mom, it was probably an act.

"Hi!" Her jaw worked for a moment, followed by a shy smile, probably also contrived. " _Marty_."

"Ah, Lorraine," Marty said, feeling vaguely ridiculous as he rubbed the back of his neck. "Wh— _uh_ , how did you know I was here?"

He tried to ignore the we-have-a- _situation_ -on-our-hands looks from Doc as best he could.

Lorraine looked down at the ground, swaying a little as she admitted, "I followed you." When she finally looked up, she made eye contact with Doc. The brazenness of her act was impressive. Marty found himself wondering why the hell she hadn't done drama in school.

"Oh, uh, this is my— _ah_ , Doc," Marty stammered before he realized his mistake. "My _Uncle_ Doc!" he amended hastily, but he knew that the damage had already been done, and _not to Lorraine_.

Doc turned narrowed eyes on him, the inscrutable pain Marty had seen in him several nights before shining through. What could _possibly_ have happened that Marty didn't yet know—

"Doc…Brown," Marty added, hoping that he hadn't made himself look like a complete idiot.

He needn't have worried, apparently. Lorraine and Doc traded awkward hellos before she stepped around the front of the DeLorean, and Doc took that moment to aim several more frantic looks in Marty's direction as he walked towards the rear of the covered car.

"Marty—this may seem a little… _forward_ ," Lorraine murmured, moving closer.

Doc's head whipped around, and now his panicked look was aimed squarely at _her_.

"But I was kind of wondering if you'd—" Lorraine stopped, closing her eyes and charging through with her forced stammer. "I—if you'd ask me to the—" she took another breath for fortitude, and how _strange_ was it to see Mom so nervous like this, even if it was mostly an act "—Enchantment Under the Sea dance on Saturday?"

Marty was speechless for a moment, and it didn't help that her nervousness had faded and she'd started looking him in the eye. Marty was positive that Doc was having a panic attack somewhere behind him. He wanted to turn and reach for him more than _anything_.

"Uh, you mean," Marty said, feeling like his brain was failing to shift into first. He threw a look at Doc, who, sure enough, looked like he was about to start quietly foaming at the mouth. "Nobody's _asked_ you?"

_Dad, I swear to God, I'd kill you myself if you weren't so important to my continued existence._

"No…" Lorraine circled around him, and Marty got the uncomfortable feeling that this was what scuba-divers felt like when they knew a shark had caught sight of them. When she stopped moving, she was standing _even closer_. "Not yet."

"What about—" Marty glanced at Doc again and saw that he had circled the car and was moving even closer still. "What about George?" This was _good_ , though. He needed Doc close, and he could sense that Doc needed that same closeness just as much.

"George McFly?" If her voice hadn't been so soft, Marty would've heard the note of disdain pretty clearly. As it was, she sounded politely disbelieving. When he nodded, she gaped at him for a moment before regaining her words. "Oh, he's—"

Marty could just feel the word _nice_ about to pass his mother's lips, and he nearly winced. Being called _nice_ by a girl was practically your death knell in 1985—and it looked like it had also been just as bad for your chances thirty years in the past.

"He's kinda cute and all," she continued, "but, I—not— _well._ I think a man should be _strong_..."

An alarm started going off at the back of Marty's head as Lorraine began to move forward with a predatory smile on her lips. Marty tried to back up without making it _look_ like he was backing up, holding out his arm—brushing his fingers first over the tarp that covered the DeLorean, and then over the stuff in Doc's lab-coat pocket. Sensing that his escape route had been cut off, Marty dropped his arm. _Doc_ was his only real recourse to refuge.

"And stand up for himself…and protect the woman he loves…" Lorraine murmured, her smile radiant.

Marty looked over his shoulder at Doc, seeking some moral support, or maybe the quick getaway he'd hoped for. Instead, he got raised eyebrows and another pained expression.

Trying not to laugh hysterically, Marty rubbed the back of his neck and rested his elbow against Doc's back. If the bastard wasn't going to provide sage advice on the field of battle, the least he could do was act as a living pillow. The touch sparked between them, comforting.

"Don't you?" Lorraine prompted, her smile abruptly fading, clearly expecting a response that Marty did _not_ want to give. He'd forgotten just how frightening his mother could be.

"...yeah," Marty said, giving in because he had no other option, wanting to kick himself.

Thankfully, Doc hadn't budged: Marty's rock through it all, just as he'd always been. Once Lorraine had gone, the tension broke, leaving them leaning boneless against each other.

"I thought you said that George had asked her out," Doc chided, easing himself upright from where he'd been leaning against the DeLorean. However, he didn't attempt to push Marty away when the dislodging caused him to stumble, or even seem to _want_ to; instead, he caught Marty and steadied him. Marty couldn't help but wonder what that meant. Had Doc forgiven Marty for not remembering whatever it was he'd been supposed to remember?

"I thought he had, too," Marty said, his hand straying to the back of his neck again. Doc's hand against his shoulder was a comfort, but, unexpectedly, the touch made him shiver.

"Marty," Doc chided him again. He must have noticed Marty's reaction, because his hand dropped awkwardly to his side. "Wishful thinking is a _bad_ idea in this situation. Need I remind you that your very _existence_ hinges on your parents getting together—"

"I know, Doc! I know!" Marty protested. Ordinarily, he would've tried to put distance between himself and whoever was yelling at him, but Marty stayed right where he was, looking into Doc's eyes. " _Trust_ me, no one knows _better_ than I do—"

Doc made a frustrated gesture at him. "Then why in the _world_ did you—"

"When a pretty girl asks you to ask her to the school dance, you don't say no, Doc."

That, apparently, had been the wrong thing to say. Fury flared in Doc's eyes, and he drew himself up to his full height. "Marty, now is not the time to let your hormones do the thinking. _Especially_ when the pretty girl in question is your own mother."

"It is if I've got a plan for how to get Mom and Dad together," Marty said quickly. And just like that, he had the beginnings of a plan. "Although my hormones have got _nothing_ to do with it." _Unless it's where you're concerned, and_ should _I be worried about that?_

"All right, then, Future Boy," Doc challenged, each syllable dripping skepticism. "What's your plan?"

"I'm gonna make George jealous," Marty said plainly. At Doc's less-than-impressed look, he barreled on. "Look, George likes her. Get him jealous enough, and who knows what crazy thing he'll do to win her?"

"That would work if George wasn't a spineless wimp," Doc muttered, severely disappointed.

Marty was tempted to speak up for his dad, but even _he_ knew how useless George was, no matter the era. "All right, then, Doc. What's _your_ idea?"

"Take advantage of her," Doc said flatly. "Or _pretend_ you're going to."

And, wow, there was a _lot_ more bitterness to that sentence than there should be.

"I'm not so sure about this, Doc," said Marty, uneasily, but he guessed he'd hear him out.

"It's a classic fiction trope! The lady is in the villain's clutches, so the hero comes and saves the day. She becomes infatuated with the hero, and since Lorraine made a point of mentioning that a man should be strong and protect the woman he loves—" on saying that, Doc looked vaguely ill "—it'll play _right_ into her own subconscious desires, which means that she'll be more receptive to George's advances."

"So _I'm_ the villain trying to take advantage of her?" asked Marty, unable to shake the sneaking suspicion that Doc _had_ cast him as the actual villain here, just a little, only for reasons that had not yet and probably would _not_ yet become apparent for some time.

"As I said previously, you're not actually going to hurt her. Just give the impression that you are. Coordinate with George about the timing—I have some spare watches around here somewhere—and you won't even have to pretend for very long."

"Coordinate with George—" began Marty, incredulously, before realizing, yeah, he was going to _have_ to bring his father into the plan, or else this was _never_ going to work.

"It'll be difficult, I know," Doc said, resting his hands on Marty's shoulders. "But as long as you can reduce the margin of error as much as possible, you should both be fine."

"What about Lorraine?" Marty asked, guilt-stricken. "Will _she_ be fine, too?"

Doc stared at him for a long moment, and then said with utmost confidence, "You would never hurt her." Doc paused, as if lost in reflection, but snapped out of it quickly. "You would never hurt anyone, not in a _million_ years. I have it on sound authority that your conscience strictly forbids it."

Marty frowned at him, about to demand how Doc would know that after only knowing him for three days, but when Doc squeezed Marty's shoulders, his attention latched onto the touch.

"Let's go find those watches," Doc said, and, one sure hand still on Marty, led him outside.

 

**Saturday, November 12, 1955**

"What's the meaning of this?" Doc demanded, waving the letter right in Marty's face.

The wind had picked up, making it difficult to hear almost anything at close range. "You'll find out in thirty years!" Marty shouted, hoping the necessary exaggeration did nothing to disguise how seriously he meant what he was saying. Jesus, he hoped Doc would be sensible.

"It's about the future, isn't it?" asked Doc, suspiciously. He looked so disappointed that Marty felt something he suspected might be the beginnings of genuine heartbreak. _Great._

"Wait a minute," Marty pleaded. If he could only just get Doc to listen, get him to see—

"It's information about the future, isn't it?" Doc demanded. "I warned you about this, kid. The consequences could be _disastrous_." He stepped closer to Marty, which helped, at least, because Marty could make better eye contact. He couldn't afford to screw this up.

"That's a risk you'll just have to take!" Marty insisted, finding it necessary to shout again over the storm's howl. He reached for Doc in spite of his better judgment. "Your life depends on it!"

"No, I refuse to accept the responsibility for this," Doc insisted. "But I'll accept responsibility for something else!"

Marty stared at him, dumbfounded. "Something else?"

Doc nodded. "Just one last thing before you go," he continued, looking like he was about to touch a live wire with his bare hands (which, Marty supposed, he well might be, but he didn't want to think about that).

"What?" Marty asked, looking up at him with trepidation. What the hell was so important that Doc felt he had to take responsibility for it?

Doc seemed to mentally count to three before he reached up, cradling Marty's jaw lightly, as if he were holding something fragile and infinitely precious. "Good luck."

He bent and pressed their mouths together, his chapped lips gentle against Marty's.

That was all it took for Marty to feel as if he'd _already_ been struck by lightning. He stared in abject confusion as Doc stepped back and let his hands fall. "You'd better go, Future Boy."

Marty stared at him, his mind blank, before he remembered what he was supposed to be doing. Still, he couldn't help but think about all the details that hadn't added up until that moment: the odd, pained looks Doc had given him when his mom had turned up at the house; just how easy Doc had found maintaining physical proximity, never mind that, as far as Marty knew, they'd _technically_ never met; the oddly tortured note in his voice when he'd asked Marty if he had a girl back in 1985. They'd seemed strange at the time—hell, Marty had thought that Doc had had a pounding headache when he'd asked about Jennifer—but _now_? Every last one of them made near-perfect sense.

Of course, _that_ was when the tree-branch had to fall, punctuating his realization with a sickening crash. It was the least opportune thing that could _possibly_ have happened.

"Oh, Great Scott!" Doc exclaimed. "You get the cable, I'll throw the rope down to you!"

They didn't have the simplest fix ahead of them, but no more time to think and a hell of a lot of urgency tended to work wonders when push came to shove. Somehow, they got the cable reconnected, and somehow, he failed _again_ to shout his warning over the increasing din.

"Look at the time!" Doc urged. "You've got less than four minutes! _Please_ hurry!"

As Marty slid across the DeLorean's hood, he told himself that he'd figure it all out later. As he tore down the street to get to the starting line, Marty decided he couldn't afford to think about what he might _yet_ do time-travel-wise that would result in such paradoxical circumstances. He tried to focus on the task at hand: he needed to get back to Hill Valley and keep Doc alive before he worried about anything else. You couldn't kiss somebody if they were _gone_.

Nevertheless, Doc had undeniably been waiting for his would-be lover to return.

And as long as he had a fighting chance, Marty _wasn't_ going to disappoint him.

"Dammit, Doc," he said under his breath. "Why'd you have to go and tear up that letter?"


	3. 1938

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1938 is a fascinating transition-point. Prohibition ended in 1933, and WWII was at the edge of the American consciousness, if not already in full-blown action in Europe. So, we have the sense that 1938 would feel a little different in terms of mood if the game designers had actually set it then, but who knows: Prohibition-like sensibilities (i.e. people like Edna Strickland) might’ve hung on at the local level in some places for a handful of years longer. We really liked how 1931 came across in the game, so, for ease of integration, we stuck with that feel rather than trying to revamp the entire game to make it fit a more 1938-ish atmosphere. Personally, we don’t mind slapping a sticker reading 1938 over all instances of 1931 and moving on (which we’ve done).

**Monday, June 13, 1938**

When Doc had instructed Marty to go find his younger self, Marty was about ninety-nine percent positive Doc hadn't meant, _Go accidentally smack face-first into him and then see how far that gets you._ But because this was Marty's life, that's _exactly_ what had just happened. Once he'd actually looked the hurried stranger in the face, _really_ looked, he'd known who he was looking at without having to be told twice; he'd seen the pictures in Doc's parents' few albums that had survived the fire, and he knew them all by heart.

And then there was the matter of the folders Marty had just scattered on the concrete, as well as the matter of Doc, seventeen and badly flustered, trying to gather them up without cursing.

"Don't touch those! These are very sensitive legal documents!" Doc snapped, his voice considerably higher-pitched, not as low and gravelly as it had grown over the years. "Only sworn officers of the court can touch those. Pop—I mean, Judge Brown says so!"

Marty straightened from his hunch, holding up one folder that Doc had missed. "No offense, but you barely look old enough to drink. How the hell are you a sworn officer of the court?"

Doc bristled. "I'll have you know that I'm _almost_ eighteen years old and one of the youngest officers sworn in during the past fifteen years! Do you realize what an honor that is?"

Marty raised both eyebrows at him, nodding in agreement. "Not really, but it sounds amazing."

Doc looked mollified before his shoulders sank. "My father didn't really give me a choice," he admitted. "That, and I'd shown stellar research aptitude from an incredibly young age."

"I don't doubt it." Marty tried to imagine this version of Doc—thinner and less sure of himself, but with the same bright eyes—poring over books even larger than _he_ was. "Doc, it's…nice to meet you. I'm, uh, Michael Corleone," Marty said, offering his hand. "I don't know much about being appointed a legal assistant, but, believe me, _this_ is an honor."

Doc frowned at him, confused and curious, ignoring Marty's hand. "Emmett Brown," he said hesitantly, with the faintest hint of a smile. "But I'm a law clerk, not a doctor. Now, please get out of my way. I have important business to transact."

 _Jesus, Doc,_ Marty thought, biting his tongue. _You don't know it yet, but you will be._ Following Doc— _Emmett_ —like some kind of creepy stalker was probably not a smart move, especially given the kid was so high-strung he'd likely consider calling the cops on somebody for that kind of behavior. Nonetheless, Marty knew he had to take that risk.

Emmett was muttering something indecipherable under his breath as Marty dashed to catch up with him. This again, _always_ this: Doc moved so swiftly it defied belief. With legs that went on for miles, it wasn't strange that he could cover the distance at such speed.

"Listen, Emmett," Marty pleaded, stopping him short. "You don't know me, but I'm your friend."

"I'm not big on friends," said Emmett; Marty's heart stopped. "They get in the way of work."

"What's this important business you're up to?" Marty asked, barely maintaining his composure. He'd heard Doc say nearly the same thing in 1955, hadn't he? And he'd failed to—

 _Oh God_ , he thought with slowly-mounting recognition. _I failed to react. He was testing me because he_ remembered _this, and I fucking_ failed _to_ —

Emmett stopped walking and turned around. "It's a legal matter—very complicated, very abstruse." He sighed, put-upon, and, through his shock, Marty felt sorry for him. "I need to obtain five sets of initials on every copy of this writ of indemnification before Pop—I mean, before Judge Brown can even _think_ of granting a waiver to the party of the first part."

Marty stared at him. "You have no _idea_ what it's about, do you?" he blurted, just barely managing to put a lid on the freak-out he _knew_ he'd have to deal with later.

" _That's_ how important it is." If Emmett was even the slightest bit aware of Marty's frame of mind, he certainly didn't show it. Thank God for small mercies, Marty supposed.

"C'mon, Doc— _ah_ , Emmett! Drop the legal-eagle act. I've got something more important for you to do," Marty said, trying his best to play it cool. He'd have to make it sound tempting.

"Mister Corleone, I'll have you know the law is the very mortar that holds society together. And we in the legal profession are like brickmasons building the edifice of the future!"

Marty stared at him again. Despite the bullshit bluster Emmett had going, hearing him repeat words that had obviously been fed to him by his father was both fascinating and disconcerting. Ever since Marty had broken into his garage, Emmett—no, _Doc_ —had always told him never to just blindly repeat whatever he'd been told by someone else, to tirelessly question the so-called order of things. And that's what Marty intended to do.

"Your dad tell you that?" Marty asked. Judge Brown must've been a real hit around town.

Emmett sighed, the legal-eagle façade melting like wax under a blow-torch. "Every morning."

This dire exchange called for a change of subject. As bafflingly _adorable_ as seventeen-year-old Doc really was, seeing him look so downcast did nothing for Marty's spirits. "So...Emmett, what time are you through with work?" Marty asked, hopefully.

"Depends," said Emmett, shrugging. "On weeknights, Pop sometimes keeps me in the office until nine." He considered this for a moment. "Or later. It's not unheard of."

"Nine at night?" Marty asked, incredulously. "And today's Monday, _damn_."

Emmett nodded grimly. "Sometimes even until _ten_ ," he added. "It's not pretty."

"How about you knock off work early, and I'll buy you a beer— _er_ , soda? Whaddaya say?"

"Don't try to tempt me from my duties with sugary beverages!" Emmett drew himself up, as if it would actually prevent him from being tempted. "Keeping the wheels of justice turning, that's my one passion in life! Besides, if I left before eight, Pop would _kill_ me."

"Sounds like you're a little scared of your father," Marty said, knowing that he was prodding at a sensitive subject. Still, he couldn't help mentally adding, _Chicken_.

"Scared of my father?" exclaimed Emmett, indignantly. "Pop is the most learned, just, incorruptible judge that Hill Valley has ever seen! The only people scared of Judge Brown are people with a dark secret to hide." He frowned. "And I _don't_ have a dark secret to hide."

Marty had a sudden flash of insight. If George McFly hadn't been a wimp, had expected him to do something typical like play sports, or, hell, go into the legal profession when all he'd ever dreamed of doing was becoming a scientist… For all his bluster, Emmett was frightened, insecure, and in _dire_ need of a friend to grab his hand and drag him on adventures.

Marty tried another angle. "Listen, I understand you're working on a new invention in your lab—"

" _Invention_?" Emmett scoffed, casting about as if he feared someone might overhear them. "You must have me mixed up with somebody else—I'm in _law_. I have absolutely _no_ interest in science." He turned on his heel and walked away for a second time.

"C'mon, wait up a minute!" Marty demanded, breathless, dashing again for all he was worth.

"You, _again_?" Emmett groaned, genuinely annoyed to see him. It hurt more than Marty cared to admit, that kind of casual rejection. "Can't you see I'm _busy_?"

"See, I'm sort of in the science business myself," he lied. "That's why I sought you out."

"Not that I care in the least, because science is the _furthest_ thing from my own area of interest, which is _law_ , but I don't _believe_ you," replied Emmett, thinly.

Marty had to prevent himself from wincing with contact embarrassment. It was bad enough that Emmett had to hide his ambitions from his own family, but for Emmett to lie so blatantly when confronted with what he loved more than anything else in the world—it was just _sad_.

"It's true," he insisted, going for broke, because, really, this was the last straw. "I'm a scientist."

"So, tell me something, Mister _Scientist_ ," Emmett demanded, looking insufferably smug, "from your _vast_ storehouse of scientific knowledge."

An old nursery-school rhyme. He was so petrified that wits'-end sarcasm was all he could manage. "Uh, the leg bone's connected to the...thigh bone?" _Way to go_ , he thought, knowing he'd lost Emmett for the third time at _least_. "Okay, so you don't want your old man to know, that's fine! Listen, we all keep secrets." _God_ , Marty thought, _if you knew mine._ "But I'm telling you, you can level with me about this science project of yours—"

"I am _not_ a scientist!" Emmett insisted petulantly. "Go ahead, ask me what E equals."

 _Christ_. It was like arguing with the world's most belligerent talking textbook. "What does E equal?"

"I have absolutely no idea. See?" replied Emmett, triumphant. "I don't know where you got your information from about me, Mister, but you're wrong, wrong, _wrong_."

Marty just stood for a while, watching Emmett stalk off. There was no use denying it: he was every kind of screwed under the sun. _Why'd you have to be so hot and stubborn, Doc?_

 

**Wednesday, October 12, 1938**

Unfortunately, Marty wasn't seeing things: Edna Strickland was _kissing_ Emmett in his lab.

The only place that Marty had _ever_ considered a safe haven from all of the crap that the world had thrown at him, and _she_ was in it. Standing in it like she felt like she belonged there, kissing _his_ Emmett like she believed she was entitled to those kisses.

The only reason Marty hadn't yet yanked her away from Emmett was because he was quite frankly _stunned_ to find Edna kissing somebody to whom she wasn't married in the first place. He faked clearing his throat, daring her to ignore him.

"Oh my!" Edna said in genuine surprise, pulling away from Emmett, brushing down the front of her starched blouse, and pulling on that stern prim-and-proper act immediately. Emmett, on the other hand, just stood there looking a little embarrassed before he, too, uncomfortably brushed himself down.

"Y'know, I _thought_ you were coming down here to keep Emmett focused on his invention." Marty couldn't resist being snide, especially since she'd made such a fuss about Emmett being left alone to work.

"Oh, she is!" Emmett said in her defense. "But she's generously scheduled brief _canoodling_ breaks every forty-five minutes to keep my mind _fresh_."

Edna's expression when Emmett mentioned that was _almost_ worth the increased nausea Marty experienced as a result. Of course, she'd promptly ruined it with a prissy scowl before turning to Emmett with an insufferable smile. "Time's up, dear! Let's get back to work."

"Shall we?" Emmett said, grinning broadly. It made Marty remember all the times that Doc had said stuff like that to _him_ , grinning all the while, eyes lit up, before they started on some new invention. To see him direct that demeanor at anybody else would've been painful at a baseline, but to hear him direct such a question at _her_ was almost too much to bear.

Marty scowled, not giving a damn, and stepped forward—just in time for Edna to block his path.

"Now, Mister Corleone, what can I do for you?" Edna asked officiously.

It was all Marty could do to stop himself from punching her pointed nose.

"Mister Sagan says he needs to talk to you back at the high school," he said, annoyed at Citizen Brown for dropping the ball when _he'd_ generously offered to detain Edna while Marty worked.

"He does?" Edna asked, perplexed and fascinated. "Whatever for?"

Marty thought fast. "He _says_ he's got a lead on the Speakeasy Arsonist."

"He does, does he?" Edna said, wavering for the briefest moment before her tone turned dismissive. "Well, I'm not sure anyone cares about _that_ old story anymore. But I suppose I _could_ spare a few minutes in the service of solving a crime."

Edna turned to Emmett, raising her voice patronizingly. "Will you be all right without me, sweetheart?"

"It'll be tough," Emmett said, sounding genuinely downcast, "but I think I'll muddle through."

Any more of this, and Marty was going to start gagging. He had to get her _out_ of there.

Edna turned back to Marty, lowering her voice. " _Try_ to keep him focused. He's so easily—" her features twisted the same way Marty's ninth-grade English teacher's used to when somebody wasn't paying attention in class "— _distracted_."

She swept past him; as Marty stepped aside, he couldn't help muttering, "Don't I wish,"

Glancing out the window to confirm that Edna was, in fact, driving off, Marty walked further into the lab and looked up at Emmett. How he was managing to balance on that gurney, fiddling with the innards of the Mental Alignment Meter, Marty wasn't sure. "Hey, Emmett," he said.

Emmett grunted in surprise, turning from the cabinet-like machine. "Oh, hey, Mike! I thought you'd headed back to the Expo with Edna." He turned back to the machine after a moment. "As nice as it would be to chat, I've really got to keep working on this."

"That's all right," Marty said, thinking about the mind-map card that he'd already manufactured to replace Emmett's _model citizen_ card. "I can hang out around here and keep you company."

"There's not really much to hang from, though," Emmett said, shooting Marty a puzzled frown.

Marty fought back a smile. "I can keep you on track," he insisted. "How's the Meter going?"

"Oh, fine, fine," Emmett said, narrowing his eyes at the machine again. "Just trying to figure out why some of the fuses are shorting out." If he hadn't been wearing that ridiculous helmet, he would've looked very much like his older self: intense in a way that _only_ Doc could make sexy.

Marty nodded slowly. He knew that he didn't have a prayer when it came to doing anything more complicated than playing gofer, so he resisted offering to help. Instead, he found himself focusing on Edna. "So…canoodling breaks?" he asked, trying to maintain nonchalance.

Emmett's cheeks went slightly red, but his smile was fond. "Yup. I didn't think it would help when Edna suggested it, but she says the aftermath focuses me on something long enough for my thoughts to reorder themselves, and, I've gotta say, she was right."

Marty frowned, not liking where this was going. "Do you know if she ever studied psychology or anything like that?"

"Edna?" Emmett surfaced from tinkering with the machine long enough to shoot Marty a startled look. "Oh, no. She went to a finishing school to become a proper lady. She's just that naturally brilliant, I guess."

 _Or just a natural at turning someone's strengths against them,_ Marty thought sourly. He tried to think of some way to introduce the idea of splitting up with Edna—which was going to be difficult in the first place, seeing as how Emmett was planning on _proposing_ to her at the Expo in a few hours. But Marty couldn't manage anything except the direct approach, which nearly made him wince.

"I dunno, Emmett," he said, letting his doubt color his tone. "That sounds kind of…creepy to me."

"Creepy? What on _earth_ are you talking about, Mike?" Emmett asked, genuinely perplexed.

"From the way you describe things, it's like she's using the fact that you're almost eighteen and full of raging hormones to make you do what she wants."

Emmett gave an airy laugh. "I keep forgetting that you don't live around here, Mike. I turned eighteen in September. I'm more than old enough to handle myself and my hormones, especially around a beautiful, cultured lady like Edna."

"I'm still only just almost eighteen, and I _know_ I don't have that kind of self-control," Marty muttered.

"Well, we all have our faults," Emmett said, with an air that instantly reminded Marty of Edna. "Yours is a lack of self-control. Mine is that I'm easily distracted."

"Y'know, that's another thing that's been bothering me," Marty admitted, biting the bullet. He folded his arms over his chest and leaned his hip against the solid wooden table in the middle of the room.

"What has?" Emmett asked, not bothering to look up from the Meter this time.

"Both you _and_ Edna have been saying that you're easily distracted, right?"

"Uh-huh," Emmett agreed absently, tweaking a dial. His lack of attention rankled.

"Why is that?" Marty asked, wondering what he'd have to say in order to get Emmett to look at him. If Emmett were Doc, and this was the 1980s (or any other year in which Doc was _Doc_ ), he would've just tapped his shoulder, but Emmett behaved like the Meter was something he couldn't afford to look away from.

"What do you mean, _why is that_?" Emmett asked, finally pulling his hands free of their task and turning to scrutinize Marty. "Because I'm easily distracted, that's why!"

Marty glared at him. "Bullshit," he countered. "I know you better than that."

" _Excuse_ me?" Emmett looked more startled that Marty had cursed than annoyed that Marty was calling him out, or at least Marty _assumed_ his shock was in response to the curse.

"I said it's bullshit, Do— _Emmett_ ," Marty said, stumbling over his friend's name for the hundredth time. "You _don't_ get distracted."

"Oh _yeah_?" Emmett scoffed. "Since when?"

Marty snorted. "You said your dad's always telling you that stuff every morning about law being the edifice that holds society together, or whatever." He dismissed it with an impatient wave of his hand. "So, you were working, what, from early morning until nine o'clock at night? Sometimes even ten?"

"Yeah," Emmett said slowly, looking suspicious. "During summer vacation from school, at least."

Marty nodded. "All right, fine, summer vacation, got it. Now, you're spending at least twelve hours at the courthouse. And then, afterward, you're here in your lab." Marty looked around, deliberately pointing out different tools around the room. "Some of this stuff had to've cost a pretty penny."

Emmett frowned. Marty could tell he still wasn't getting it. "Some of it, I scrounged from dumpsters. The hand-crank's always had a problem with the wires stripping. I make do where I can."

Marty raised his eyebrows at him. "You actually spent time looking for stuff you could use?"

Only Emmett could make a shrug look defensive. "I found a few things here and there. What does it matter?"

"Let's look at this another way," Marty said. "How often were you dreaming of inventions while you were having your soul sucked out of you at the courthouse? How long did it take you to invent that rocket-powered drill? You knew what settings it had and _just_ where to keep the throttle, so it must not have been your first version. All of that takes time, time that _you_ spent, by _yourself_ , in order to shape an idea and then start perfecting it in between working twelve hours a day at a job you _hated_ and getting enough sleep so that you could function the next morning."

By the end of Marty's impromptu rant, Emmett was staring at him with wide eyes.

Marty glared at him. "Now, tell me again that you're _easily distracted_."

Emmett flinched, his eyes still locked on Marty's. "That stuff was different."

"How?" Marty demanded. "You didn't just _survive_ working as a law clerk. You followed your dream while your parents weren't looking. You submitted a _patent application_ for something you invented. Remember how you told me you weren't sure what was going to happen when you sent it? It could've ended up in the trash, for all you know, but you sent it off anyway. Hell, Emmett, you're braver than I've _ever_ been. I couldn't even send off an audition recording, for crying out loud."

"An audition recording?" Emmett asked, curious and confused. "Are you a singer like Trixie?"

"Never mind," Marty said quickly. "The point is, you took a chance, and you didn't care about the very real possibility you might get rejected. And now I come back after a month, and what do I find you doing? Running around with _Edna Strickland_ and working on more, what do you call them, _civic-minded_ inventions?"

"What's wrong with that?" Emmett demanded. "Concerning oneself with social utility isn't a bad thing—"

"If I wanted to listen to Edna, I'd go talk to _her_ ," Marty snapped. "It's bad enough that you're taking cues from someone who probably doesn't appreciate your work or even understand what most of it _does_ —"

"What are you _talking_ about?" Emmett spluttered. "Edna is my scientific muse! I wouldn't get nearly as much work done, or—or know just how valuable it is to society without her to point it out to me! I'm useless when it comes to determining practical applications!"

"Emmett, what's your rocket-powered drill supposed to do?" Marty demanded, his throat gone raw, and, oh, _God_ , he'd felt this kind of wrung-out before. He couldn't help but think of 1955.

"Absolutely nothing, because it's worthless!" Emmett shouted. "It's all well and good to think of something, but if no one has any use for the idea, it's just wasted time!" he ranted on. "How much more time would you have me waste? I'm not getting any younger!"

"There is nothing wasted in the pursuit of knowledge," Marty said, the words abruptly springing into his mind, and he could remember the exact moment Doc had said them, years ago (or was it years _forward_?), in a garage warmed by a crappy space heater that felt like _home_. "Each mistake you've made is just something new you've learned."

Emmett stared at him, looking hollowed out and beaten-down. "You talk a good game, Corleone," he said, his voice gone just as hoarse as Marty's. "I'll give you that much. But Edna—"

Marty nearly hurt himself trying not to roll his eyes. "Edna again. Jesus Christ, Emmett, she's bad news all around. Can't you see that?"

"Bad news—" repeated Emmett, blankly, before his expression turned to one of fury. "You _do_ remember she's the woman I intend to _marry_ , don't you?"

"Which is the absolute _worst_ idea in the world," Marty snapped. "Emmett, you're _eighteen_ years old." God, he was starting to sound like those disapproving fathers he always saw on crappy sitcoms. "Marriage is supposed to be until death do you part! Do you seriously want to spend the rest of your _life_ with a woman like that?"

"Seeing as how she's the only woman who ever looked at me twice, maybe I do!" Emmett shouted, his cheeks flushing.

Marty almost shouted something else, but the hunted gleam in Emmett's eyes stopped him. Hell, Emmett _was_ eighteen. Before Jennifer had looked in his direction, Marty had thought he was doomed to a life of solitude followed by dying a virgin. Seeing as how the society of 1938 expected people to know just what they wanted a lot faster than the one of 1985 did, Marty couldn't help but feel for the guy.

He sighed, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly. "Emmett, I'm just saying...you should keep your options open."

"Mike, my options are either Edna or being alone," said Emmett, dejectedly, "and I'm sorry, but I've decided I _like_ having someone who wants me. Nobody's more surprised than I am."

"There's plenty of fish in the sea, Emmett." Marty felt kind of stupid for using such a trite phrase, but it was still true. It was sheer _hell_ trying to conceal his regret at what he stood to lose. "You don't have to pick the first girl who comes along and notices you. That's how people end up making mistakes they regret for the rest of their lives."

"Well, it's not like there are ladies lining up around the block, y'know!" Emmett shouted, slapping his hand against the back of the Meter's cabinet for emphasis.

"Doc—dammit, _Emmett_ ," Marty swore, mentally kicking himself. "You're a scientist. Are you telling me you're going to close off all of your options just because of one failed test-run?"

"A lady like Edna isn't a test-run," Emmett replied, somehow managing to come off as both insulted and slightly panicked. "She's far too classy and morally upstanding for such—"

"I'm not saying that you're _not_ a gentleman, Emmett—jeez, gimme a little more credit than that," Marty muttered. "But the whole point of dating is to find out what kind of person you like, what kind of habits are deal-breakers, what you're really looking for in a person, that kind of thing. Sometimes you've gotta dive back in again and again until you find the right one."

"Have _you_ been doing a lot of diving back in?" Doc shot back, sounding curiously _bitter_ for all that he was acting like he'd found the partner of his dreams.

Marty shrugged. "Not really. There was a girl once—" it hurt a little to think of Jennifer, but he was surprised at how she felt like a distant loss instead of a fresh wound "—but it didn't work out between us. I figured out that, even though I cared about her, I wasn't putting her happiness first. That wasn't fair."

"Did you find someone after that?" Emmett asked, waiting to hear the rest with bated breath.

"Yeah," Marty answered instantly, this time definitely feeling a pang seize his heart. "This cute redhead with gorgeous brown eyes. Absolutely brilliant. Didn't realize I went for the smart ones until I noticed that our friendship had gotten a hell of a lot deeper without me realizing it."

"What's her name?" Emmett replied, still seemingly entranced by Marty's tale. Whether it was that he secretly admired Marty for some kind of imagined romantic prowess or he was actually beginning to _reciprocate_ Marty's existing attraction, which he'd been struggling to hide since their first encounter, Marty honestly couldn't tell. Maybe he was just a great storyteller.

"I don't think I'm at liberty to say," Marty said sternly. "Gentlemen don't kiss and tell."

"Since when are _you_ a gentleman?" Emmett scoffed, a smile tugging at his lips.

If Marty _had_ been a gentleman, that barb might've genuinely hurt. As it stood, he was tempted to punch Emmett companionably in the arm for the perceived slight. "Since when are _we_ gentlemen, for that matter? C'mon, Emmett. Lighten up."

"The one friend I have—who, by the way, drifts in and out of my life without so much as a by-your-leave—is telling me that I need to break up with the only woman I've ever gotten close with, and now you're telling me to _lighten up_?" He was pulling rank again in that completely _insufferable_ way. "How long have you been with this wonder girl of yours, anyway? Can you say you've been dating her as long as I've been dating Edna?"

"It's been…" Marty stopped for a moment, trying to pin down the time when he and Doc officially started dating—if he could call it that. It didn't help that their relationship had technically begun in 1885; by that math, they'd been dating for fifty-three years. But in terms of continuous real-time, they had spent several months together in 1885, and then seven months in 1985, so it had been… "Jeez, almost a year?"

Emmett frowned in gradually-mounting suspicion. "Why did it take you that long to figure it out?"

Marty shrugged at him, grinning wryly. "You know me. I don't pay much attention to calendars."

"So, a year with your wonder girl," Emmett said, beginning to sound the slightest bit jealous.

"Hey, I knew hi— _her_ for years before that. It was one of those cases where we already got to _really_ know each other before we went for it, you know?" Marty said. "Hell, we knew each other's best _and_ worst qualities well before we had our first kiss."

"That's all fine and dandy, but I need to _have_ someone first before I can find out about their qualities," Emmett grumbled. "The good _and_ the bad, come to that."

"Well, if you do what you love, it might not be so hard to find someone?" Marty offered, realizing that it was a fairly weak response. Doc had never mentioned having any relationships before the two of them had gotten together in 1885, except for a _youthful indiscretion_ that had probably happened around Emmett's current age, or a few years in Emmett's future. But to tell Emmett that his relationship dry spell was going to last…jeez, _fifty_ years, give or take, wasn't going to go over well with a teenager facing the idea of being alone for the rest of his life.

"But I _am_ doing what I love," Emmett insisted. "I mean, look at this place!"

"Are you seriously telling me that you'd have built the Mental Alignment Meter if you'd been left alone?" Marty asked, his tone dripping with skepticism.

"Maybe not," Emmett admitted stiffly. "But I still _invented_ it. In a few years, it might even be viable for commercial use."

"Viable for—" Marty blinked. "Are you saying the Meter doesn't work?"

"It's a helmet with blinking lights that reads electrical responses!" Emmett said, looking offended. "Of course it doesn't _work_! It's pure hype! Nothing but a clap-trap gimmick!"

"Then what was all that nonsense about being the toast of the scientific community?" Marty asked blankly. "And that stuff about attracting investors?"

The look Emmett gave him was fond, yet condescending. "There's no way a dressed-up _potentiometer_ is going to be able to read a subject's personality. If I wanted to actually build a working model, it would take a lot more time and money than I have at my disposal right now to even _begin_ working out a viable concept." Emmett started chuckling the longer he looked at Marty's face. "Don't tell me that you actually thought this thing really _works_."

Marty scowled, momentarily disappointed in himself. "Yeah, actually, I _did_."

Emmett blinked. "Look, Mike, I'm just a kid with a lab that I built out of spare parts. Anything that I make is just going to be some gimmick, just like this thing." He lightly thumped a fist against the side of the Meter's cabinet. "I've never been able to make anything work in my life."

Marty stared, wondering how in the world Doc had ever started out as this insecure kid. "Emmett."

Emmett turned back to him with raised eyebrows, finally as focused as Marty wanted him. "Hmmm?"

"If anyone _could_ make a clap-trap gimmick work, it's _you_ ," said Marty, with all the conviction he felt. "You don't give yourself anywhere near enough credit, and neither does Edna."

Emmett's eyes widened; he looked impossibly young and _desperately_ betrayed. "How can you have so much faith in me?"

Marty thought about the first time he'd met Doc. He thought about standing beside him in the parking lot of Twin Pines Mall, Doc _hopping_ with excitement as he screamed about eighty-eight miles per hour. He thought about Doc in 1955, how he'd explained his plan to use lightning to send Marty home. He thought about their first brush of a kiss, under the stars of a chilly November night with thunder rumbling all around them.

Then Marty shrugged as carelessly as he could manage. "I dunno," he said. "I just do."

 

**Thursday, October 13, 1938**

"What are you _doing_?" Emmett demanded as Marty spritzed his pant-leg with stain remover. The noxious stuff didn't take long to work its decomposition wonders at all; Emmett swung free of the perilously swaying statue with a shout, latching onto Mary's rope with both hands.

" _Trust me_!" Marty shouted, clinging to the rope for dear life, experiencing a flood of sheer _relief_ that he'd managed to snag Emmett from where he'd been dangling. "Hold on!"

"What did you say your name was?" Emmett asked, half-smiling through his receding terror.

"Marty!" Marty replied, feeling his palms burn as his grasp weakened and began to slip.

"Marty, _thanks_!" said Emmett, and everything, _everything_ had been worth it.

"Don't mention it!" Marty shouted back, and that was when _both_ of them let go.

No matter how many times across countless decades Marty found himself _literally_ having to jump, nothing ever prepared him for the shock of landing. Emmett dropped from rope to pavement first, so lithe and unfazed as to be infuriating. Marty hit the ground seconds later, his ankles painfully jarred, his palms bitten and scraped by a slight layer of grit. He'd have a few cuts.

"The catalyst will need to be made out of tungsten given the temperature within the converter will no doubt be intense," said Emmett, already forging ahead on construction plans for his electrokinetic hover-car device, or whatever the hell it was meant to be. "We'll have to harvest the filaments from all the light bulbs in my house."

"Your invention?" Marty asked, wondering how much trouble Emmett would be in the next morning when the house lights failed to work. "You think you can finish it before the end of the Expo?"

"Think? I've _got_ to," said Emmett, his optimism restored. "My future depends on it."

"Then let's go," said Marty, so relieved he thought he might cry as he headed for the passenger seat of Emmett's blue truck. Impressive, that his father permitted him transport capable of carting junk.

"Of course, the oscillating plates will need to be calibrated precisely; even the slightest misalignment could cause the magnetic field to fluctuate in intensity, leading to sudden shifts in polarity," Emmett rambled on, heading for the driver's side. "The results could conceivably be catastrophic!"

"Aw, who _cares_ ," said Marty, grinning in spite of himself. _This_ was his Doc.

"My thoughts exactly! Science _should_ be messy and unpredictable," Emmett agreed, yanking open his door, sliding into the vehicle as Marty followed suit. "Otherwise, where's the fun of it?"

They joked and bickered the whole way back to the Brown Estate, although Marty was careful not to distract Emmett to the point he couldn't keep his eyes on the road. On arrival, Emmett pointed out that they'd have to be quiet, as his parents were likely already asleep. They closed their car doors as noiselessly as they could and snuck in through the side entrance, both of them pitched into silent giggle-fits when Emmett dropped his keys. They brushed elbows in the darkened hall, shivering.

"It's cold in here, isn't it?" whispered Marty, sobering considerably. "And I'm kinda tired. You?"

"Then there's only one solution," Emmett whispered back. "Let's sneak into the kitchen and make some coffee to take to the lab. I'm afraid all I've got out _there_ is half-burnt _Hasenpfeffer_!"

"But do we do the lightbulbs before that or after that?" Marty asked. "And Emmett, no offense? You're a _mess_."

Emmett looked down at his tattered, chemical-damaged suit and shrugged. "Should I change?"

"How about this," Marty said. "You go shower or get cleaned up or whatever—" Marty was glad of the semi-darkness, as it meant Emmett wouldn't see him blush at the thought of him getting undressed "—and while you're doing that, I'll fetch all the lightbulbs from the cellar and the first floor. No way am I gonna risk skulking around the second floor if your parents are in bed. Too risky."

"They're the room at the very end of the hall, just past the bathroom, which you'll know I'm in because of the light," Emmett told him. "All the other doors up there are guest-rooms or _my_ room, and nobody'll be in any of them. If you think you can keep quiet enough, grab the bulbs from those, too!"

There was no denying it was a delicate undertaking, but Marty somehow managed it _before_ Emmett was even done in the shower. He'd gone back outside and pulled an empty seed-sack from the back of the truck; by the time Emmett trailed into the lab with damp hair and his shirt half buttoned, Marty was already there with both the sack, rattling and full, _and_ a pot of coffee.

"We'd better get that back to the kitchen by morning," Emmett sighed, sounding grateful as Marty poured some into one of the chipped old mugs he kept out in the lab and handed it to him.

"It's nearly ten o'clock," said Marty, pouring himself some as well. "We don't have that much time."

"Nonsense," replied Emmett, with a curt hand-wave. "That's _early_. Let's get to work."

Smashing light bulbs and tweezing out the filaments wouldn't have been Marty's first choice of a way to spend the rest of his (possibly final, for all he knew) night with Emmett, but he'd have to make do. They got an efficient extraction-and-repurposing process underway in no time, what with him pulling the tungsten and handing it over shred by shred so that Emmett could do—well, jeez, whatever it _was_ he was doing with it on the work-top. Marty didn't know one levitator-part from another.

By the time they'd finally used up all of their covertly-snatched contraband, it was almost midnight. They were tired and punchy and leaning into each other with ease, their coffee long since consumed. Emmett wiped his forehead on his rolled-up sleeve, gracing Marty with a weary, satisfied smile.

"I think we can leave the rest of this till morning," he said. "Assembly's something I can do while you're still sleeping; I'm of a mind to let you have a lie-in, because you've _earned_ it."

"How generous," said Marty, wryly. "So you're feeling better about the whole Edna thing, right?"

"I'd sure like to hear more details about your dating experience," Emmett sighed. "It seems like you've got it all figured out. You even had the foresight to realize why Edna was just no good. What's your secret?" he asked imploringly. "You must be a real expert in matters of the human heart."

"Nah, Emmett," Marty sighed. "I'm not an expert in relationships. I'm just an expert in _you_."

Emmett tilted his head at Marty, his eyes narrowing in much the same way Marty had seen them do when he'd asked Marty's name as they dangled from the rope. There had been a genuineness in that expression, something akin to _remorse_ , and he wondered why Emmett was feeling it now.

"You've come to know me so well in so little time, Marty," he said, leaning close, and whether it was how tired he was or something else, Marty couldn't tell. "Why won't you let me know _you_?"

 _Oh_. There it was, the punch to the gut he hadn't been expecting, coupled with Emmett's piercing, _pleading_ eyes to boot. "There's so much I can't say," he sighed. "Emmett, it's—"

 _Complicated_ , Marty thought, dazed as Emmett's dry, pliant lips pressed against his. Reflex born of days, weeks, _months_ in these arms both familiar and not made it so very _easy_ to press one shaking hand to Emmett's cheek and let his fingers curl deftly along Emmett's jaw.

The kiss was over far too quickly, although Emmett loomed close in Marty's field of vision, biting his lip, and Marty's hand still cupped Emmett's cheek. He couldn't bring himself to pull it away.

"It's complicated," Emmett sighed. "Yeah, I know. But does it really _have_ to be?"

"Oh, aren't you a sight for sore eyes," was all Marty could manage, and leaned in again. The contact lasted slightly longer this time, and both of them thrilled to it. Marty let his lips part ever so slightly, darting his tongue along Emmett's lower lip in one tentative swipe. They shivered apart.

 _Oh God_ , thought Marty, in a moment of terrible realization. _I'm Doc's youthful indiscretion_.

"Wait a minute," Emmett breathed, glancing to one side, his hand coming up to rest over Marty's against his cheek. " _I'm_ the cute redhead you were talking about yesterday, aren't I?"

Marty pinched the bridge of his nose with his free hand, wincing. "Well, you got me there."

"But how could you possibly...?" asked Emmett, baffled, but he made no move to shift out of Marty's personal space or to let go of his hand. "We haven't even known each other for all that long."

"And you knew Edna for a lifetime before you decided that you wanted to marry her?"

"That's different," Emmett insisted. "It was social expectation and parental pressure."

"Bullshit, Emmett," Marty insisted, flexing his fingers beneath Emmett's. " _We're_ different."

"Oh? And _how_ are we different? I don't know anything about you other than the fact that your name is Marty and that you drift in and out of my life at the strangest times, and yet—" Emmett faltered, blushing to the shells of his ears "—here I am, kissing you without reservations."

"You know why, Emmett," Marty replied, missing what he'd left behind in 1986 so fiercely that the temptation before him burned worse than the rope. " _You're_ the one who kissed _me_."

Emmett shrugged, rubbing the side of his neck. "It could've just been a stress reaction brought on by having survived a potentially fatal...situation…" He trailed off, his eyes drifting back up to Marty's. Brown and luminous, _pleading_. There was no mistaking his unvoiced request: _again_.

"Jesus, Emmett," Marty whispered, tilting his head to meet Emmett halfway, "you don't have to _ask_."

Slower, this time, both of them taking the time to actually _taste_. Emmett's tongue along Marty's lower lip was tentative, mirroring Marty's action of mere seconds ago. Marty bit back a whimper, leaning into Emmett without really meaning to. Emmett froze for several seconds, lacing his fingers with Marty's against his cheek before continuing. Whatever else Edna might have been, at least she hadn't left Emmett clueless about kissing. He was as quick a study here as he was anywhere else.

"That was… _nothing_ like kissing Edna," said Emmett, faintly, his breath tickling Marty's cheek.

"I am _definitely_ not Edna," Marty said, stifling an elated gasp against the corner of Emmett's mouth. They hadn't even bothered to pull apart this time, his free hand on Emmett's shoulder and Emmett's free hand hovering uncertainly between Marty's shoulder blades. In a fit of inspiration, Marty finally dislodged his hand from Emmett's cheek and lifted his other hand from Emmett's shoulder, slinging his arms around Emmett's neck. "Hey, Emmett?" he said, pulling Emmett close.

"What?" Emmett frowned, not sure what was going to happen next, but seemingly game to try.

"Buckle up," Marty murmured, leaning into him, nuzzling Doc's cheek before going back in.

If those last few kisses had been like the first few tries of riding a bicycle, then this one was like revving a Harley and speeding down the fast lane. Marty found himself remembering bits and flashes of himself and Doc, back in 1885, when their relationship was new and wild and they didn't give a damn about _anything_ except spending time wrapped up in each other. His fingers slid through Emmett's hair, massaging lazy, possessive patterns against Emmett's scalp before rubbing his hair the wrong way on purpose (just because he could). As they got braver, their teeth clashed, their tongues brushing against each other to soothe the shock of it, and _damn_ if that didn't feel amazing.

The sound that Emmett made in response was higher than Marty would've expected, but the hands that simultaneously locked around his hips promised all _kinds_ of mayhem. A few seconds later, there was a wall at Marty's back, and Emmett Brown— _uptight_ , know-it-all law clerk Emmett Brown—was pressed fully up against him, kissing him for dear life.

When they were finally desperate for air, Marty moved his hands to Emmett's shoulders, gently but firmly easing him out of the kiss. "Nice seatbelt," Marty said, shifting his hips just a little to remind Emmett where his hands had ended up.

Emmett blinked a few times, hazily, looking like he'd been caught with his hand in the cookie jar. "I hope—" he kissed Marty's cheek, lingering "—it's not too forward if I—" He cut off again, kissing the side of Marty's neck, and, Jesus, was he actually using his _teeth_?

"If this situation doesn't switch to full speed ahead in the next two seconds, I'm going to be _really_ disappointed in you, Doc," Marty managed, gasping as Emmett nipped him again.

Emmett paused, his lips a tantalizing brush against Marty's skin. "You've called me that before."

Marty groaned, torn between thumping his head against the wall and getting revenge for the tease. "I'll call you whatever the hell you want—just don't stop kissing my neck, _Jesus_."

"I hate to break it to you, but we'll need to get out of here soon if you want me to continue," said Emmett, unsteadily, burying his face in Marty's hair. "I don't think this is the smartest place—"

Marty's couldn't help but imagine Emmett with his head thrown back against pale sheets, his dark eyes half-lidded with bliss. And _then_ he couldn't help but imagine all the things that might go wrong: someone walking in on them, and Emmett out on the street; having to say goodbye to him with empty promises of seeing him soon; the thought that Emmett might insist on coming with him, and where would _that_ leave them? Marty felt like he'd been doused with a bucket of ice water.

"Marty?" Emmett sounded so tentative, so _unlike_ himself, that it ripped Marty out of his thoughts. "Is something wrong?" he ventured, almost despairingly. "Did I—"

"What? _No_ ," Marty murmured, sliding one hand up around Emmett's neck while the other cupped his cheek. "You're fine, Emmett. No, _better_ than fine. You're perfect."

"Then what's wrong?" Emmett asked, not sounding terribly reassured. "You look _sick_."

"Nothing—" That got him a dark glare at close range. "No, really. You did nothing wrong, I swear."

"That's not what I asked," Emmett grumbled. He moved in closer, and, for one breathless moment, Marty thought he was going to kiss him again, but Emmett shifted his weight and reached up to brush Marty's hair back from his forehead. The gesture was chiding and tender all at once.

Marty found himself remembering a late-September sky under which he'd lain with Doc out in the middle of a recently rain-greened stretch of desert. Doc had shared his blanket because Marty had forgotten to bring a spare. And the memory of it—the mere thought of possibly having _obliterated_ that Doc for good all because he'd wanted to see this sweet kid have some fun before he became _his_ Doc—hurt.

"Emmett," Marty lamented, "you're so gorgeous that I feel like I'm vandalizing a priceless piece of artwork or something. And you _know_ I'm no art expert." _Except when it comes to you_.

"Vandalizing…?" Emmett frowned, completely bewildered. "Marty, did you hit your head? I know that I knocked you pretty hard into the wall there, and I'm _sorry_ about that—"

Marty shook his head. "No, I'm fine, honest. I guess I just waxed a little poetic or something." The explanation seemed to appease Emmett, but he couldn't just leave it at that. "Um, listen. I have some bad news to tell you, and I might as well get it over with."

Emmett's frown cleared, leaving behind an expression that was too somber for a kid at eighteen. "You're leaving again," he said sadly, fixing Marty with a steady, knowing gaze.

"Yeah, I'm—" Marty blinked. "What, wait a minute— _how_ did you—?"

Emmett sighed, looking annoyed, which was an improvement over the sad puppy-dog eyes (as Clara had once so fondly called them). "Marty, I'm not blind. This is the third time that you've come to Hill Valley, and, given you never stay more than a few days, I figure that you're on your way out again."

Marty rubbed the back of his neck. "Guess I'm a creature of habit, huh? Totally predictable."

Emmett rolled his eyes, the gesture filled with fond exasperation. "I'll admit, I'd been…hoping you would stay a little longer this time," he offered, trying to temper the statement with nonchalance. "But if you're telling me the bad news now, it sounds like you're out on a rail soon." He paused, looking pained. "Unless you've got a car, although you should know the roads out of town aren't that great."

Marty couldn't help snorting at that, remembering how hellish the cow-paths of 1885 had been on the DeLorean's shocks. "Yeah, I know about the roads. They, ah...need some work."

Emmett smiled wryly. "That's the one thing you'd think would get exponentially better with all these government work programs, but the roads _are_ still pretty bad."

It took Marty a second to place the reference to FDR, but if there was one thing a time machine was good for, it was for learning history. That and high school exams had also drilled it into him.

"So…" Emmett ventured, tentative again, deliberately sliding his hands from Marty's hips up to his sides. "You'll be leaving soon. I can't change that no matter how hard I try." When Marty nodded, he tilted his head just a little. "Don't you want something to remember me by?"

"Emmett Lathrop Brown, there is no way in hell I'd _ever_ be able to forget you." Emmett looked stunned for a moment before Marty shrugged and suggested, "Your family photo album?"

Emmett groaned, but he didn't sound as pained as he _could_ have, given how many pictures his mom had taken of him when he was little. "I swear, Marty, this is no time for kidding around. I'm being completely serious." He brushed a kiss against Marty's lips. "I think you understand what I—"

Marty'd had no idea what Emmett was talking about until, yeah, along with that kiss, it hit him. He eased them out of the kiss, maneuvering as if Emmett were made of spun glass. "Emmett…that's a hell of a thing to offer a guy like me. After all I've put you through, I really don't deserve it."

Emmett hummed, pretending to look like he was thinking over something very important. "Let's see…giving me hope for the first time in eighteen years that I could actually follow my dreams instead of being crushed under the weight of the legal profession for the rest of my life…helping me steal a-hundred-and-ninety proof grain alcohol to fuel an invention that ended up exploding…saving me from a fate worse than death…" He looked Marty squarely in the eye. "I _want_ this."

"If I let you have what you want, I _won't_ be held responsible for my actions," Marty insisted.

"Then _I'll_ be held responsible for them, _gladly_ ," replied Emmett, leaning in to kiss Marty for all he was worth. "Come inside with me," he whispered. " _Please_. Come upstairs."

Just like that, Marty felt his resolve crumble. "Jesus, Doc. I really can't say no to you, can I?"

"You can't seem to stop calling me that, either," said Emmett, "although, if I'm honest—" He pressed close to Marty again, and there was no ignoring it now, oh _God_ : Emmett was hard against him.

"Which bedroom's yours again?" Marty heard himself ask, shakily pushing them away from the wall.

Getting back to the house took more work than it should have; Emmett didn't want to stop touching him, and Marty was afraid that if they _didn't_ stop touching each other until they got safely behind a closed door, shit was going to happen in the living room or in the hall or who _knew_ where. For all the jokes out there about falling up staircases, that wasn't too far off the mark.

Marty just hoped with all his might that Judge Brown and his wife were both heavy sleepers.

"There," Emmett said once they were safely behind his bedroom door, throwing the bolt. "That wasn't so difficult, was it?" He cast about the room in the moment of anxiety, remembering that both of them were still wearing reasonably filthy shoes. "I suppose this means that we should— _well_ —"

Marty sat down on the edge of the bed, all business, unlacing his brogues. If Emmett needed to be led by example now that the full weight of the situation had made itself apparent, then Marty was happy to oblige. "Yeah, we should," he muttered, tossing his shoes over next to the nightstand. "Emmett?"

"Right," Emmett said, kicking carelessly out of his shoes, not caring that they'd landed on the expensive-looking rug at the heart of the room. " _Right_. Could you turn down the covers—"

"Hang on." Marty got up, shivering a little, abruptly aware that the upper floors of old houses _did_ tend to actually carry a draft. He fixed Emmett with a steady gaze, hoping to express reassurance, and unbuttoned his waistcoat. "Take it easy, okay? There's _really_ no rush."

"Says _you_ ," Emmett grunted, attacking the buttons of his shirt from the top down. "It's almost one o'clock in the morning, and _I'm_ the one who won't see you again—"

"One o'clock is early, remember?" Marty asked, offering him a teasing smile. He watched Emmett discard his shirt on the floor as carelessly as he'd dispensed with his shoes, somewhat stunned that he was willing to abandon propriety all for Marty's sake. Marty swallowed, beginning to unbutton his shirt; he startled out of his concentration when Emmett came over and finished the job for him.

"Early enough," Emmett sighed wistfully, his eyes widening as he pushed Marty's shirt down off his shoulders. "It'll have to be, won't it," he murmured, bending to kiss Marty's collarbone.

"Bed," Marty reminded him, clinging to Emmett's shoulders. " _Bed_ , Emmett. Now."

Emmett broke into that heartbreaking grin of his, taking Marty by the hand. "There's no place I'd rather be," he said, tugging Marty along impatiently. "But you _should've_ got the covers."

"So sue me," Marty sighed, backing Emmett onto the edge of the mattress when they got there. "And you _would_ , wouldn't you, from the sound of things?" He yanked the covers down until he hit Emmett, draping them playfully over his head. "But you're on the wrong side of the law _now_."

Emmett sputtered, throwing off the coverlet. "You are the single most _infuriating_ —"

"I could say the same thing about you," Marty said, unfastening his trousers while Emmett crawled up to where the sheets were exposed and kicked the covers the rest of the way down. His eyes drifted down to Marty's waistband just as Marty unbuttoned his fly, wide and expectant in the low light.

Marty smirked, tempted to slow down, make a strip tease of it. Unfortunately, in his single-minded quest to get rid of what was left of his clothing, he'd neglected to help Emmett with _his_. Emmett was still staring raptly at Marty, hadn't even _started_ on his own trousers, and, dammit, Marty wanted to see some skin. He kicked his trousers off, leaving them where they fell.

Emmett's eyes drifted up from Marty's purple Calvin Klein underwear to meet Marty's gaze. "Why did you stop?" he asked blankly, reaching for Marty's hips, tugging him closer. "You're still…"

" _You're_ still wearing too many clothes, look who's talking!" Marty reminded him irritably.

" _Shhh_ ," Emmett scolded. "Keep your voice down! Do you want to wake my parents?"

And, God, wasn't that a hell of a thing? Marty had gotten so used to being the youngest one in the relationship that it was a mindfuck and a half to think they might be busted by Emmett's _parents_. He swallowed, nodding, and tapped Emmett's ankle with his big toe.

"Are you gonna take those off," he whispered, "or am I gonna have to do it for you?"

Emmett's lips parted, and, in the moonlight filtering in through the window, he suddenly looked so damn _young_. "I—" He glanced nervously down at his lap, shifting back against the pillows.

Marty felt like a heel. It hadn't been all that long ago that he'd been in Emmett's shoes, and Doc had been a hell of a lot more patient with him than he was being now. "Oh, jeez, Emmett—" before he could second-guess himself, he climbed onto the bed beside him and wrapped an arm around Emmett's waist "— _sorry_. I wasn't thinking. This is a huge decision to make."

Emmett frowned at him. "Why are you apologizing to me? I'm the one who started this—" He waved a hand at his bedroom, looking disgusted with himself. "I shouldn't be running hot and cold like this—it's not fair to you."

Marty lifted his head from where he'd rested it against Emmett's upper arm. "This isn't you running hot and cold. This is you being _nervous_ , and you've got every right to be. Just because you want something doesn't mean it's not scary as hell when it's happening. It _definitely_ doesn't mean that you're not allowed to change your mind at any point."

"We've already lost our shirts, Marty," Emmett muttered. "If I were a woman in this situation, I'd be accused of—of being a prick-tease!" he blurted, blushing just as deeply as he'd done in the lab.

Marty kissed the side of Emmett's neck, soft and patient. "I don't care what 1938 says about what we're doing, or what we'd be called, or whatever. The opinions that matter are _ours_ , and if you really don't want to do this, we'll stop."

"But—" Emmett blinked at him, befuddled. "What does 1938 have to do with anything?"

Marty tried not to wince. "I mean, ah—look, I don't care what _today's standards_ dictate, okay? We're gonna stick with what works for us, and that's final."

Emmett narrowed his eyes, obviously too curious to let Marty's phrasing slide. "Why didn't you say that in the first place instead of referencing the year?"

"Because I guess I'm kind of old-fashioned," Marty sighed, resting his chin on Emmett's shoulder. "My point is, I'm not gonna take your pants off unless you _tell_ me to take your pants off. Tell me to wait, tell me to stop, tell me to go faster, tell me to go harder, _anything_. Even if you have to close your eyes or hide your face against my neck, I just need to hear you _tell me_."

"Fine! Then I'm telling you I want—" But whatever it was that Emmett wanted, it was lost to the _astonishingly_ fierce kiss he laid on Marty a split-second later, tugging at Marty's waistband.

Getting Emmett's pants unfastened was nearly impossible given he didn't seem to want to stop kissing for _anything_ , so Marty had to improvise. He kissed his way from Emmett's mouth down to his neck, and from there down to his chest, savoring the way Emmett's fingers threaded in his hair. By the time he got to Emmett's belly, he was lying still and pliant enough for Marty to unbutton his fly.

"Oh," said Emmett, his fingers stilling in Marty's hair. "Marty," he added softly. " _Please_."

" _Shhh_ , hey," Marty murmured, nuzzling Emmett's hipbone through the thin fabric of his underwear as he tugged Emmett's pants down to about mid-thigh. "Please do what?"

"Anything with your hands or your mouth or _both_ would be a great idea about now!" Emmett hissed, seemingly too frustrated to even remain embarrassed. "I don't really know how to ask—"

"You don't have to ask me for anything," Marty murmured, tugging the offending article of clothing down until Emmett could kick free. He flipped the pants off the side of the bed, smiling tentatively, and crawled back up to kneel between Emmett's temptingly spread thighs. "Want me to improvise?"

Emmett nodded once, firmly, catching Marty by the wrists. He kissed each one in turn, and then lay back, guiding Marty's hands to rest against his hips. "Seems only fair you should get to reciprocate."

Marty stroked Emmett's hipbones, nodding, and then hooked his thumbs beneath Emmett's waistband. As strange as it felt to be doing this while he was still in his socks and underwear, Marty understood that this wasn't about him at _all_. It was about taking care of Emmett at all costs.

"So you want these to come off, huh?" Marty asked softly, tugging them down a fraction.

Emmett's breath caught at the tug before his frustration flared again. "Yes," he said, sounding as if he he thought he was being remarkably patient. "I do, if you wouldn't _mind_."

"Oh, good." Marty grinned, stroking just under Emmett's waistband. "I wouldn't want to be too forward."

Emmett rolled his eyes, but when Marty tugged at his underwear again, he gave a helpless shiver. "All right, fine, I stand—" he stopped, considering their positions on the bed "— _lie_ corrected."

"You just don't shut up, do you?" Marty asked, deciding enough was enough, tugging Emmett's underwear down _just_ far enough to expose— _well_. Tough not to stare at the head of Emmett's cock, sure, and tough not to let his eyes flick up to Emmett's face to gauge his reaction.

Emmett had been about to say something smart, Marty was _sure_ of it, but instead his eyes went half-lidded, and he wasn't sure what to do with his hands. Emmett grasped restlessly at the sheets, flushing from cheeks to chest, his endearingly scattered freckles thrown into even sharper relief.

"I'll shut up if that's what it'll take to get you to do something _useful_!" he snapped, breathless.

Marty hummed. "On second thought, it might just make you louder. Let's test out that theory, shall we?" He wanted to just lean in and give Emmett a long, savoring lick, but seeing just how embarrassed and turned on Emmett was made Marty slow down. At any point, if Emmett didn't want this, he could _say_ so, and Marty wanted to give him as much time to change his mind as possible.

Marty's lips were nearly brushing against damp, heated skin, and he couldn't hear anything other than Emmett's harsh, labored breathing. Marty drew a breath of his own, waiting.

"You're going to make me say it, aren't you?" Emmett whined, his muscles taut as a bowstring.

Marty stayed exactly where he was, lifting his gaze to meet Emmett's. "Please, Emmett."

Emmett gave a full-body shiver before whispering, "Whatever it is you're going to do with your mouth down there, _please_ don't leave me in suspense."

Marty had been thinking of just licking him, but _now_ he wanted to feel the weight of Emmett on his tongue. Gently tugging his underwear down just a little further, Marty slid his forearms across Emmett's hips, catching both of Emmett's hands so he'd have something to hold onto. Marty lowered his mouth to the head of Emmett's cock and gave him a tentative lick. This wasn't undiscovered country for Marty, not by _any_ stretch, but he could remember the shock of it, could remember how he hadn't even _dreamed_ what it might feel like to have another person's tongue—

Emmett sounded as if he'd simultaneously gulped water down the wrong pipe and _also_ forgotten how to breathe. Whatever he was trying to push past his lips, the words didn't make it.

"It's okay," Marty murmured, nuzzling Emmett before going in for another lick. " _Really_ , it's okay. You don't have to say anything." He sucked experimentally, letting his tongue dip briefly into Emmett's slit, and the sound he made next had a bit more voice behind it. " _Mmm_ , God."

Emmett didn't quite manage to swallow a breathy sob, his hips jerking under Marty's arms.

" _Ah_ ," Marty murmured, not in the least surprised at the sudden, sticky mess against his cheek, his chin, his neck. "Hey, _shhhh_. That's good, Jesus _Christ_ , Emmett, you're so—"

Emmett tightened his grasp on Marty's hands, still shaking. "This—isn't what I planned to—"

"You don't plan when you're gonna come, good grief," Marty laughed, pressing a kiss against Emmett's belly, which was just as much of a mess now. "You just enjoy it when you do, okay?"

Emmett sagged back against the pillows, his grip on Marty's hands looser now, but not about to let go _any_ time soon. "I usually do, but—" He managed to look down at Marty, his eyes wide. "Great Scott, you're practically _covered_. Here, let me get something—"

Emmett was about to half-dive off the bed to grab the nearest article of clothing, but Marty tugged on his hands. "Hey, stay put. No need to be a Boy Scout, all right? If I'd wanted to clean up right away, I would've taken care of it."

Emmett fixed him with a hazy, love-struck look that just about broke Marty's heart. " _Thank you_ ," he said quietly, and then held out his arms. "Why don't you come here?"

"Okay, see, in _that_ case," Marty said, crawling over to the edge of the mattress, "I probably _should_ take care of that just so we don't get stuck." He didn't know whether cleaning Emmett up with his own freshly-donned shirt of earlier was bad form, but he could hardly use one of _his_ articles of clothing when they were the only set he had. Once he'd finished, he tossed the shirt back on the floor and did as he'd been told, because Marty knew Doc _never_ took no for an answer.

Emmett kissed Marty's forehead, pulling him close. "If you can give me five minutes," he said, determined, "I'm going to return the favor and _then_ some, just wait and see."

"This…" Marty faltered, taking his turn to bury his face against Emmett's neck, because he sincerely doubted he'd be able to say what he meant to say without tearing up. "This isn't about duties owed or favors to be repaid," he managed, pressing his lips against Emmett's collarbone. "So there."

"You could stay," Emmett murmured, skimming his fingertips from Marty's shoulder down to his wrist. "We'll find a way to convince my father you're useful, I just _know_ it."

God, it _hurt_. Just the idea of staying, of growing old with Emmett, of taking the long way through time instead of shortcuts and pit-stops was so fucking _tempting_. He could've probably gotten used to 1938. He could've gotten used to _anywhere_ as long as he had Doc.

But there was scary shit on the horizon, World War II and stuff like the Red Scare that Marty had barely paid attention to in school, but would have to _live_ through if he stayed. Hell, being with Emmett would be even _harder_ —it was hard enough to be gay in 1986, and _that_ in a decade that was supposedly more enlightened than the nineteen-thirties and forties.

And even if he'd been strong enough to stay, even knowing that shit was just going to get harder as time passed, Marty missed his Doc. He'd have Emmett at his side, but there was the very real risk that Emmett would change as he grew and become someone who wasn't _quite_ the same Doc that he'd met in 1983. And there wouldn't be a DeLorean, because, if Marty stayed, Emmett might not be stupid enough to try to hang a clock in a bathroom without making sure it was safe first. As much hell as time travel had put him through, Marty knew he'd never trade a single moment of it.  _Especially_ not this one, not with Emmett holding him like the sun might not rise.

"Emmett." Marty winced, as his tone was much more harsh than he'd intended. He cleared his throat and tried again. "Listen, part of me wishes I _could_ stay. You don't know how badly, believe me."

Under Marty's cheek, Emmett's whole body tensed. "Why would it be so difficult to stay? You already come and go as you please—"

"I've got reasons for coming and going like I do," Marty said. "And they've got to stay mine alone." It felt like such a stupid excuse, because how many times had his parents used that on him? They never even bothered to explain why, they just said _leave it alone_ , like that would solve everything.

"And apparently whatever business takes you out of town keeps you so busy that you don't have time to look at a calendar to know what date it is when you _do_ return," Emmett retorted. "Are you even going to let me enjoy the rest of tonight as much as I'd like to? Are you even going to let _yourself_?"

Marty rubbed his forehead and sat up, feeling the beginnings of a headache tugging at the edge of his consciousness. "Now that you mention it," he said, "that might not be such a bad idea. Leaving it here for now, I mean. Emmett, as much as I enjoyed this, as much as I _want to_ —"

"Why _won't_ you let me vandalize you, too?" Emmett demanded, abruptly furious.

If there had been one thing that Marty had been expecting for Emmett to bring up, he had to admit, that wasn't it. "It's not vandalizing if the canvas is already pretty beat-up, Emmett," said Marty, weakly. If he'd been telling this story to a friend, they'd have classified it as a comedy, but the betrayed look in Emmett's eyes was something Marty could _never_ laugh at, not in a million years.

"What are you trying to say, exactly?" Emmett's eyes narrowed, and Marty could just _see_ the gears spinning. "You make a habit of this, is that it? Been around the block a few times with other—other _masterpieces_ you've encountered in your travels?"

Marty hadn't thought it would be possible for him to get angry with Emmett, but at the moment he was so furious he couldn't even see straight. "There's only one masterpiece in my life," he snapped, "and I'm going to treasure it for as long as I _fucking_ can."

"Then I hope you and your masterpiece will be very _happy_ together," Emmett shot back, rolling away from Marty until he faced the wall. In the cool air of the room, Emmett was _shivering_ , and that's what snapped Marty out of his unaccountable fit of rage.

"Aw, _jeez_ ," Marty groaned, reaching for the covers, tugging up both sheets and comforter until he could cover both of them. "I never meant for it to sound like—" He cuddled up to Emmett's back, determined, one hand on Emmett's shoulder. "Emmett, I know you don't want to listen to me right now. You want me to stick around, and it hurts like a son of a bitch that I can't. But I need you to know that I _can't_. If I could spend the rest of my life with you, every step of the way, watching you get older and wiser and more patient, I'd do it in a heartbeat. But I have responsibilities elsewhere, and I know that _nobody_ understands responsibility better than you."

Emmett stiffened. For a moment, it felt like he was going to answer, but that was when he sighed, snuggling into his pillow resolutely, radiating misery that Marty had no _idea_ how to fix.

"There's something else I've got to say," said Marty, reluctantly, "and I really, _really_ don't wanna say it, because it's going to come off as cheap and disingenuous and _awful_ , but…" The air between them felt expectant, so Marty forged on. "I'm sorry I won't be there for you in 1946."

One moment, he desperately wished he could rest his cheek against Emmett's back. The next, he was facing down a pair of wide brown eyes that swiftly narrowed in confused, harrowing accusation.

"1946?" said Emmett, suspiciously, his tone completely mystified. "What happens in 1946?"

"I know how this story turns out," Marty insisted as gently as he could. "You'll know it when it happens, Emmett, and I can't give you any hints. And I'm _so fucking sorry_."

" _Hints_ …?" Emmett whispered the word with disdain. "This _story_? What's going to happen in 1946, Marty? And how the hell would you even _know_ about it?"

"The same way I know that, in 1955, I'm going to rip your heart out of your chest, and I'm not even going to do it intentionally." He might as well let this one out of the bag, no holds barred. "You're gonna see me again, Doc, but I'm not even going to remember that this night _happened_. I'm going to come begging you for help, and I'm going to confuse the _shit_ out of you, and I'm so, _so_ sorry. I'm going to tell you I have a girl waiting for me back at home, and I can't stop saying I'm sorry because there's literally _nothing else I can do_ to make it better."

"Then what you're saying is," said Emmett, slowly and coldly, "that I should forget about _you_ as thoroughly as you're going to forget about _me_." He blinked at the wall, shaking off Marty's touch. "I can assure you that _won't_ be difficult to arrange, not if you keep going like this."

Marty stared at Emmett's back, realizing that his vision had begun to blur. He was standing on a cliff now instead of a building, and he had exactly two choices: either jump or run.

"Please don't take this the wrong way," he told Emmett, "but I'm exhausted. I'm gonna take this spare pillow and sleep out in the lab, okay? You know where to find me. Tomorrow's a big day, and I'm gonna be there for you." When Emmett didn't answer, Marty picked up his pillow. "I'm gonna be there for you whether you want me or not."

Well, that had all but decided it. He breathed in, he breathed out, and then he _ran_.


	4. 1885

**Thursday, September 3, 1885**

Whenever Mad Dog Tannen and his cohort got to hollering, it usually meant some poor bastard was going to wind up dead. It wasn't the kind of thing you wanted to hear early on a Thursday morning.

After eight months of sussing out how to survive in 1885, Doc had learned that much. So far, he'd managed to avoid drawing _too_ much of Tannen's attention, except for shoeing his horse a time or two (he could hardly blame the horse). Even then, the bastard had stiffed him the money.

It was a bad sign that whoever was on the other end of Tannen's rope wasn't screaming.

Doc picked up his sniper rifle from where he kept it stowed out of sight behind the refrigeration machine, checked the ammunition it currently held, and cautiously made his way outside. Walking across dusty street to the half-built courthouse, Doc arrived just in time to hear Tannen bellowing about it being high time they had a hanging. He yanked off the scope-cover, cocking the rifle.

 _The only thing saving you from an instant bullet to the brain, Tannen, is that it would cause a major disruption in this town's future timeline,_ Doc thought sourly, taking aim not at Tannen, but just above the head of the poor out-of-towner on the end of his rope, whose feet kicked weakly.

Beneath a layer of dirt and grime, suffering the indignity of holes ripped into his too-brilliant pink trousers and embarrassing tassels on his likewise garish pink shirt, was _Marty_. He scrabbled desperately at the rope around his neck, struggling for air, parting his lips as if to speak—

Doc's heart stopped at the sight.

Luckily, his limbs moved without his needing to direct them. He lifted the rifle's sight once more to his cheek, zeroing in on the taut, swaying stretch of rope about a foot above Marty's head.

"Don't thrash so much, Marty," he whispered to himself. "I only have two bullets in this thing."

He waited for the precise moment when his crosshairs and the rope lined up, and then fired.

Marty's bright, terrified eyes widened as he fell to the ground with a sickening _thump_.

In one fluid motion, Doc reloaded and aimed right at Tannen just as he and his lackeys turned to face him. "It'll shoot the fleas off a dog's back at five hundred yards, Tannen, and it's pointed straight at your head!" Doc shouted. He only had one bullet, and he _shouldn't_ risk changing the timeline so drastically, but there was no way in hell that he was going to let Tannen kill Marty.

Tannen considered this for a moment before stopping his men with a raised hand. Then, he nudged his horse forward, flaunting the fact he wasn't afraid of the gun currently aimed at him.

"You owe me money, blacksmith," Mad Dog drawled, sneering at him.

 _Christ, not this shit,_ Doc thought sourly. "How do you figure?" he demanded, not bothering to hide his annoyance. If Tannen was going to get aggressive right out of the gate, then so was he.

"My horse threw a shoe," Mad Dog said, as if the beast had done it to offend him.

Doc sighed heavily, but he wasn't about to let down his guard. He adjusted his grip.

"Seein' you was the one who done the shoeing, that makes you responsible."

Insofar as Doc had survived thus far in 1885 by not drawing more attention to himself than he'd found absolutely necessary, he couldn't help losing his temper. "Well, since you never paid me for the _job_ , I say that makes us _even_!" he shouted back.

"Wrong!" Tannen shouted, flecks of spittle sticking to his scruff. "See, I was on my horse when he threw his shoe, and _I_ got throwed off. And that just caused me to bust a perfectly good bottle of fine Kentucky red-eye. So the way I figure, blacksmith, you owe me five dollars for the whiskey and seventy-five dollars for the horse."

Doc found himself developing a whole new appreciation for Marty's patience in dealing with Tannen's various descendants. Dealing with this kind of mentality day in and day out made Doc's head hurt.

Doc could see Marty out of the corner of his eye. He stumbled to his feet, squinting as he rubbed his neck and muttered something to himself. If Tannen hadn't been there, Doc would've run to him and held him close, but he didn't want to risk putting Marty in further danger. Oh, but he _wanted_ —

"Look, if your horse threw a shoe, bring him back and I'll reshoe him!" Doc shouted, even if it galled him to make the offer. The nineteenth century didn't have much concept of better-business practice, but he figured it couldn't hurt if he were to take initiative and introduce the concept.

"I done _shot_ that horse!" Mad Dog shouted back, challenging him belligerently.

Doc snapped, finally finished with the conversation. "Well, that's _your_ problem, Tannen!"

"Wrong." Tannen must have thought dropping his voice lower made him sound intimidating, but all it did was annoy Doc even further. He tuned out the usual bluster about watching his back, and once Tannen was gone, Doc turned to Marty, who made his way haltingly over to him.

"Doc..." Marty flashed him a heartbreaking smile. The hoarseness in his voice made Doc's heart clench, but Doc was too exasperated to let Marty off the hook just yet. Of all the _foolish_ —

"Marty," he began, trying to hold onto his annoyance long enough to chastise him, "I gave you _explicit_ instructions not to come here, but to go back directly to 1985."

"I know, Doc," Marty said, looking sheepish, but determined. "But I had to come—"

Doc didn't want to hear his excuses, not when his voice still sounded so dreadfully raw, so painfully _strained_. "But it's good to see you, Marty," he said earnestly, smiling in spite of himself.

Marty fell against him, and they clung to each other in sheer relief. Doc closed his eyes for a long moment, taking the time to soak in the fact that Marty was whole and alive and _here_.

Doc's eyes opened as he realized the fabric of Marty's fringed shirt beneath his fingertips was _not_ leather or, indeed, any other natural substance. As Marty stepped back from their embrace, Doc couldn't help looking down to study him, wincing at how outlandishly his friend was dressed.

"Marty, you're gonna have to do something about those clothes," he said, unable to prevent himself from putting this bluntly. "You walk around town dressed like that, you're liable to get shot."

Marty reached up to rub the hollow of his throat, glancing over his shoulder at the in-progress courthouse edifice. When he glanced back at Doc, he said, "Or hanged."

 _Please don't joke about that,_ Doc thought to himself. Trying to cover his flash of worry, as well as his renewed desire to take Marty in his arms, he demanded, "What idiot dressed you in that outfit?"

Marty clapped his hand on Doc's shoulder, grinning, his teeth brilliant, _modern_ white against the dust, grime, and likely even _more_ foul substances in which he was caked. "You did."

 

 

***

 

 

Doc set his hat aside once they'd gotten in from assessing the DeLorean's extensive damage, shaking his head as he considered the implications. "We'll have our work cut out for us, that's for sure."

"No kidding," Marty said, tossing his hat down next to Doc's. "Given you said the parts won't be invented until 1947, I'd say that's more than just work cut out. That means we're completely _screwed_ , Doc. Think about it." He shifted from one foot to the other, limping a little.

Doc frowned at him, wondering why he hadn't noticed before. Then again, Marty had the unnerving ability to hide discomfort for extended periods of time, be it mental _or_ physical in nature.

"Marty, are you all right?" he asked, broaching the matter as circumspectly as he could; one wrong word and Marty would shut down on him quicker than a blink. "Did you stumble on the way here?"

"Yeah, it's nothing," Marty sighed, pulling off one of his boots with a hiss of pain. "Tannen and his losers dragged me around town before stringing me up at the courthouse. You missed a real show."

Doc stared while Marty pulled off his other boot. "Dragged you around—Great _Scott_ , do you mean _literally_?" he asked, horrified. "Although I suppose that would explain the damage to your trousers and— _Marty_ ," he implored, taking a step closer. "Are you sure—"

"What?" Marty replied, wiggling his toes inside the socks he'd borrowed, as if it felt wonderful to be rid of the unfamiliar footwear. "Doc, it's no big deal. I don't think you have to worry—"

"You don't think I have to _worry_?" Doc echoed incredulously. "Do you know what infection will do to you if those wounds don't get _dressed_ properly? The mortality rate is appalling."

"Wounds?" Marty laughed. "C'mon, Doc, you make it sound like it's life and death or something."

"It _is_ life and death, Marty," said Doc, gravely. "Back in 1985, you _still_ would've needed to go to the hospital to get those injuries assessed, and that's if you'd been dragged on asphalt, _not_ dirt roads where people don't think twice about walking through manure on a daily basis."

Marty shrugged, starting to look self-conscious now, but damn him, he still wasn't taking this seriously. "So, I'll go to the doctor and get some Neosporin or something."

Doc was two seconds away from slapping his forehead hard enough to give himself a bruise. "Marty, they don't _have_ anything like Neosporin, and they won't for at least eighty or ninety years." When it looked like Marty was about to say something else, Doc snapped, "I wouldn't trust the local sawbones to treat anything worse than a cold," he said, enunciating each word. "The medical practices in this era are completely barbaric. If you let those wounds fester, you could lose _limbs_."

 _That_ did the trick. Marty's eyes widened, and _there_ was the young man under all of the bravado that he felt the need to hide from the entire world, Doc included. "It can't be that bad…"

Doc scowled at him. "I saw a man two months ago have his arm amputated because his broken humerus had been set improperly. Take off your clothes, and let me see how bad the damage is."

Under other circumstances, the blush across Marty's cheeks would've been charming. "Hey, Doc, that's not really necessary—"

"Have you ever heard of internal injuries, Marty?" Doc asked flatly. "At a bare minimum, I need to see if you've got any cracked ribs. And you might still have scratches in places I can't see."

Marty looked like he was about to protest further, but Doc had finally had _enough_. "Take off your clothes, and _sit down_ ," he ordered, indicating the nearest chair. "Now, please."

Marty's eyes widened in genuine surprise, but he did as Doc asked without further hesitation.

Doc turned to his desk, deliberately busying himself with looking for the batch of hydrogen peroxide he'd made a few months ago in the cabinet underneath. Squinting at the nearly-empty glass apothecary bottle, he dug around further inside and unearthed the bourbon flask he kept on hand for emergencies and figured, if ever there was a time to use it, that was _now_.

He turned back to Marty and stopped, his eyes tracking over an astonishing sight.

Marty's back looked supple, the scrapes on his shoulder blades and down his spine looking more like the brushstrokes of an artist than actual lacerations. The sunlight bleeding through the front door of the forge made Marty look like his spirit was something tangible, illuminating him from within, and warming everything within reach. When he turned around, glints played on his tousled hair, his blue eyes luminous. "Doc?" he asked uncertainly, his hands clenching and unclenching at his sides.

Doc shook himself, issuing the very firm reminder that Marty was _injured_ and that he needed _medical attention_ , not someone ogling him. He needed to focus on the task at hand. Once glance at Marty's legs showed he was still wearing his ludicrous purple underwear, thank God.

Meeting Marty's gaze again, Doc said, more gently than before, "Sit down, Marty." He held up the bourbon and the peroxide with a sardonic half-smile. "I'm afraid this is going to sting like hell."

"Um, what do you want to look at first?" Marty asked, still fighting off sheer embarrassment. "My ribs or my back?"

"From what I saw just now, it looks like your back might not be too bad," Doc admitted, trying to sound as professional as possible. "But your ribs are a bigger concern. Sit down normally, hold your arms up away from your torso, and make sure not to slouch. I'll try to make this quick." _If I take my time, I'm going to be in big trouble._

It was gratifying to know that Marty could sit down easily enough, with only a slight wince as his backside made contact with the chair, so at least he wasn't injured too badly there. Doc worried that he wasn't going to be able to function by the time the examination was over. Still, he couldn't forestall touching Marty's skin any longer.

Marty jumped like he'd been electrified when Doc rested his hands lightly against his skin.

Doc yanked his hands away, instantly worried. "Pain?"

"Uh, no," Marty mumbled. "Just a little…surprised."

Doc frowned up at him, beyond concerned. "You knew I was going to touch you."

"Yeah, well, maybe I'm not used to you touching me like that?" Marty offered weakly.

Doc rolled his eyes, relieved that Marty was just embarrassed, and not in actual pain. "All right, Marty, I'm going to lay my hands on your sides to check your ribs. If something hurts, I need you to _tell_ me. And I mean _actually_ tell me, not pretend that it's not a big deal."

Marty sighed, looking like _he_ was the one who was being remarkably patient. "All right, fi— _jeez_!"

Doc shot him an unimpressed look. "My hands aren't cold, Marty."

"No, but I'm ticklish!" Marty protested, biting his lower lip. "Sorry."

Doc blinked at him, surprised by the admission. "Oh. I hadn't…realized." He turned his attention to Marty's torso, looking for any bruising or abnormal bumps and mentally comparing Marty's physical configuration with the medical textbooks he'd read ages ago. "Do you feel any stabbing pains? Shortness of breath?"

Marty seemed to consider this for a moment before decisively saying, "No."

"Breathe in," Doc ordered absently, frowning at Marty's chest and trying not to think about that night when he was eighteen, and how he'd seen this very skin by moonlight. As Marty's chest expanded beneath his touch, Doc pressed firmly against Marty's warm skin, trying not to run afoul of Marty's ticklish response. "Release."

When Marty could speak again, he asked lightly, "What's the diagnosis, Doc?"

Doc snorted, glancing up at Marty's smile. "I don't know, Marty. Are you playing off any stabbing pains just so that I don't get upset?"

Marty gave him a half-hearted, indignant glare. "Doc, I seriously don't think I could hide that kind of thing with you touching my ribs."

After having seen Marty limp away from fights when he was fifteen, Doc had developed a healthy level of skepticism over the years. "If at any point your ribs start hurting—"

"I'll let you know," Marty murmured. When Doc raised his eyebrows at him expectantly, he added a mumbled, "Promise."

"Good." Doc nodded, frowning at Marty's chest again and trying to focus on the scrapes marring the canvas instead of how beautiful the canvas was. He reached for one of the bottles he'd brought from his desk without looking.

Marty lit up when he saw the bottle of bourbon, sounding hopeful. "Hey, I remember that drinking liquor is considered an effective painkiller in Westerns."

"You're right, but this stuff is six dollars a bottle," Doc replied, setting the bourbon back down and working the cork out of the peroxide bottle. Holding it up and shaking the liquid inside, Doc frowned at it before nodding to the table near Marty's left arm. "There should be a clean rag on the table—thank you." He folded the rag a few times, and then pressed it to the lip of the bottle before dampening the rag, and then setting it down again. "All right, Marty. I'm about to dab at your left side under his ribs. Try not to flinch too much."

" _Ow_!" Marty started to recoil the second the rag touched his skin, but his chest tensed as he squeezed his eyes shut.

Doc nearly recoiled, too, the sight of Marty in pain making him feel somewhat ill. Pulling the rag away after a quick dabbing, Doc looked up at Marty's tense features, considering. "All right, we can do this one of two ways."

One slightly watery blue eye popped open, looking hopeful. "Yeah?"

"Either I take care of each of these cuts one at a time—" Doc began, motioning with the rag.

Marty winced, hopeful that there might be a simpler alternative. "Or?"

"You stand up, and I take care of the cuts on your back and on the backs of your legs while you take care of the cuts on your front and sides," Doc told him. "Would a sip of the bourbon help?"

Marty nodded, looking a bit queasy. "I don't want to have to draw it out."

Doc nodded firmly, handing him both the rag and the bourbon. "I should have another rag around here somewhere. Take this one and start wherever works best for you, and I'll be right back." He headed for his desk, tossing over his shoulder, "And I'll know if you're faking it."

"Yeah, yeah," Marty muttered. "We've come this far, Doc. I'm hardly gonna back out now."

As Doc looked for something relatively clean, he could hear Marty sucking in his breath and grunting as he worked. For a moment, Doc wondered if Marty was playing it up because he _wasn't_ doing as he'd been told, but he figured Marty's bravado would keep him cleaning all of the cuts he could reach.

Doc came back half a minute later, pouring more peroxide onto the rag he frowned at Marty's back. "It looks like you've got a few cuts here and there along your shoulder blades and along your spine, but they don't look too bad."

"That's good to hear," said Marty, his voice tight, dabbing gingerly at his left arm.

"Starting in three, two, one," Doc announced before pressing the damp rag against Marty's skin.

Marty hissed, but Doc could feel him shaking as he tried to keep still. Working as fast as he could, Doc managed to clean all the cuts he could see before he reached the waistband of Marty's underwear.

"How's your backside?" Doc asked. "And before you say that you're fine, I saw you wince when you sat down."

Marty sighed. "Yeah, it's probably got some bruising. See any blood?"

"No," Doc told him, relieved at the absence of evidence. _Thank God_.

"Good," said Marty, flashing a lopsided grin over his shoulder. "I like this underwear."

"Too bad you're not going to be able to wear it while we're here," Doc replied dryly.

"What?" Marty turned around the rest of the way, looking incredulous. "Why not?"

"How many times have I told you that you can't wear anachronistic clothing?" Doc asked pointedly. "It's bad enough that my thirty-five year old self put you in that ridiculous get-up—"

"You do realize that you're talking about _yourself_ , right—" Marty started to ask before what Doc had said finally registered. "Wait, you were _thirty-five_?"

Doc nodded. "Yes. I was born in 1920, and before you feel the urge to make any wisecracks, people with red hair have a genetic predisposition to losing pigment sooner than any other hair color."

Marty continued to stare at him. "Your hair was almost _white_ , Doc. Like it is now."

"Yes, and that's something else that runs in my family," Doc said patiently. "If you must know, my mother went grey before her fortieth birthday."

Marty nodded, still looking too stunned for comfort. "So…the night that you sent me back to 1985…"

Logically, Doc should've been the one to forget long before Marty would, given the nightmare of keeping things straight when dealing with time travel, but the moment Marty mentioned that night—and implied exactly what had _happened_ —Doc could remember the kiss as if it had happened yesterday.

"We're not discussing it," Doc said firmly. "Now turn around."

Marty frowned at him. "What do you mean, we're not discussing it?"

"Your pants have at least one hole in them from this morning, Marty," Doc said. "Turn _around_."

Marty drew himself up to his full height, which would've been more impressive if he'd been six inches taller. "No, we're discussing it now," he insisted.

"All right, stay still if you want this taken care of," Doc snapped, dropping to his knees without ceremony. He scowled at one very scraped knee, swabbing at it brusquely. _There's no way in hell I'm going to talk to you about that night_ , he thought bitterly.

" _Ow_ ," Marty had the nerve to howl, taking a few hurried steps back. " _Jesus_ , Doc, are you tearing off the skin or something?"

"It's _bleeding_ , Marty," said Doc, emphatically. "And considering I know how many horses come through town on a regular basis—"

"We've already covered that infection is a _bad_ thing, Doc," Marty managed through gritted teeth. "Since you don't want to start this conversation off, I'll keep going."

Doc got to his feet, and that's when the argument started in earnest. Evasively, he continued, "Your right knee is serious enough that you might need bandages—"

"You don't get to kiss me and _not_ explain why you did it!" Marty said desperately.

Doc folded his arms across his chest, trying not to think about how Marty was usually the one to do so whenever they argued back in 1985. "Never mind that you're going to need to scrub with soap and water—"

"You don't get to look tragic every time I so much as fuck up while dealing with my parents," Marty exclaimed, waving his arms in an exact mirror of Doc's usual argumentative stance. "Or with my now non-existent future kids, or when I mention my life back in 1985!"

Doc's voice grew harsher as he stayed his course. "And the water here in 1885 isn't anywhere _near_ as sanitary as it is a hundred years in the future."

"You want to talk about the future? _Fine._ " Marty's voice was growing hoarser the longer he kept screaming, and Doc was uncomfortably reminded of the hanging that he'd prevented just this morning. "What the hell was so important about fixing my kids' lives?"

Doc couldn't withstand Marty's verbal equivalent of a battering ram anymore. "After your son got put away and your daughter got arrested, too, you _gave up_!"

"Then that's what the hell happens to that version of me!" Marty shouted, exasperated. "If you wanted to fix the shit that happens in his life, you should've conscripted _him_."

Doc bristled. "Oh, so you don't give a damn about your kids _or_ your future?"

"I don't give a damn about them because I don't _know_ them!" Marty said, as if this made perfect sense. "I know Jennifer, I know my parents, I know Dave and Linda, and I know _you_. That's it! That's my world! Everything else, every _one_ else? I don't care." Marty stopped, as if he'd suddenly realized something. "Actually, you know what? That's not my world anymore. Because my world is 1885 now—with a DeLorean I fucked up coming to save you from being murdered, and _you_ for company. So, if you ask me, wanting to know about that damn kiss is kind of _fucking important_."

"You want to know about that damn kiss?" Doc snapped, attempting to keep his voice in check.

"Yeah, I do!" Marty snapped back with the kind of recklessness that always got him into trouble.

" _Fine_ , Future Boy," Doc seethed. Before he could stop himself, he'd closed the distance between them and cupped Marty's face with both of his trembling hands, kissing him deeply.

Marty's lips against his went rigid with shock before they softened, parting without hesitation.

At the first brush of Marty's tongue against his, forty-seven years after his last kiss, Doc was the one who couldn't contain a soft, hopeful whimper. He tugged Marty closer, desperate for contact.

Marty bumped his injured knee against Doc's, letting out a sharp hiss of pain, but didn't pull away.

Hearing him make that sound was worse than jumping into the lake in January. Doc flinched out of the kiss, using his hands on Marty's cheeks to keep Marty from diving back in again. "Marty—"

" _Doc_ ," Marty panted, setting both hands on Doc's shoulders. "This is exactly what I'm—"

"What was I _thinking_ ," Doc sighed, easing away from him. "I'm exhausted, you're exhausted _and_ in pain, and we've scarcely had the chance to get our heads around the sheer _scope_ —"

Marty leaned up and kissed Doc, soft and apologetic. "Jeez, I'm sorry. Maybe tomorrow we can…"

Doc surfaced from the kiss slowly, the words Marty was saying jarring him out of the contented warmth Marty's kiss left behind. He took the rag out of Marty's hand and went about collecting the rest of his ragtag first-aid kit paraphernalia, putting everything away methodically in order to clear his head. He ought to fetch fresh linens next, of course, and see about unfolding that cot he'd commissioned from the carpenter when he'd first acquired these premises for establishing his smithy.

"Is there, uh," Marty began, watching Doc with vague bewilderment, "anything I can help with?"

"Go pull some fresh clothes out of that drawer over there," Doc instructed, putting the bottles back in the cabinet under his desk. "Long-johns and a shirt is probably all you'll need for now; tomorrow we'll take a trip down to the mercantile general to pick you up some more proper attire."

By the time Doc had finished tossing the rags into his laundry bin and washing up for the night (a splash of cold water tended to work _wonders_ on imprudent thoughts), Marty was standing dressed in a pair of Doc's overlarge large long-johns with the poncho from earlier draped over him.

"Hope you don't need either of these," Marty said, tugging at the poncho's sturdy weave. "I like 'em."

"I don't even remember where that _came_ from," Doc said, waving his hand at the garment. "You're welcome to keep wearing it. Not my style. I think somebody's wife sent it as a welcome present when I rolled into town." He went to the linen cupboard across from the Chesterfield, and then dumped the sheets and blankets on Marty while he went to fetch the cot. "Good thing you're small."

"I don't know whether I ought to take offense at that or not, Doc," said Marty, wryly. "Need help?"

" _Please_ ," Doc sighed, relieved, situating the now-unfolded cot and its rough, straw-stuffed mattress next to the secondhand vanity with its battered, dusty mirror. "I haven't made many beds."

It didn't take long for them to get the cot ready, and it took even _less_ time for Doc to bid Marty a curt good-night before retreating to the safety of his own bed. Stripping down to his underthings first, he slid under the covers and blew out the nearest candle they'd left burning.

"Good night to you, too," he heard Marty say thinly. "This thing's a bit lumpy."

For roughly thirty minutes, Doc tried to lie as still as he could, but Marty's tossing and turning was difficult to ignore. He could hear other sounds, too, low voiced sounds of discomfort and chattering teeth that reminded him just how _cold_ desert evenings really were. He sighed, sitting up.

"There's no sense in you freezing," he said in defeat. "Get over here, and bring those blankets."

Marty rolled out of the cot and gathered up the mess of covers quick as a blink. "You sure?"

"Yes," said Doc, against his better judgment, scooting over. "As long as you don't sprawl all over me."

"I'm gonna be dead to the world in two seconds flat, Doc," Marty muttered, doing his best to layer the mess of extra blankets overtop of Doc's existing covers, and then crawled in beside him. " _Ahhh_."

Marty did fall asleep in next to no time, but Doc lay awake for a very, _very_ long while.

 

 

**Friday, September 4, 1885**

"Marty, it's perfect! You're just not thinking fourth-dimensionally," Doc protested, following Marty back from the perilous edge of the half-completed stretch of track.

"Right, right," Marty muttered, sounding annoyed. "I have a real problem with that."

"Don't you see," Doc insisted, pointing at Shonash Ravine. "The bridge _will_ exist in 1985! It's safe and still in use. Therefore, as long as we get the DeLorean up to eighty-eight miles an hour before we hit the edge of the ravine, we'll instantaneously arrive at a point in time where the bridge is completed. We'll have track under us, and coast safely across the ravine!"

"What about the locomotive?" Marty asked with an edge of anxiety Doc knew all too well.

"It'll be a _spectacular_ wreck," Doc admitted. "Too bad no one will be around to see it."

"So, if the plan fails, we're not only going to be arrested for hijacking a train, but also for destroying it. How many years do you think we'd get?"

"Marty," Doc said chidingly. "We're not going to be around to get arrested. For all anyone would know, we were two unhinged men who wanted to commit suicide in a particularly spectacular fashion."

"The fact that you've used _spectacular_ twice now to describe this wreck kind of worries me, Doc."

"Very funny," Doc replied, mounting his horse, and adjusting his grip on the reins.

"Listen, not to change the subject or anything," Marty sighed, "but we've now got _two_ kisses to deal with instead of just one. That was...pretty great last night, Doc. Better than 1955, anyway."

"Marty, it was completely ill-advised and—" Doc paused for a moment, feeling undeniably stunned when what Marty said had fully sunk in. He shook his head in frustration, trying to clear the mental image of Marty, standing in just his designer 1985 underwear in the smithy, and tried to remember why kissing him was an incredibly bad idea in the first place.

"Still pretty damn good," Marty finished for him. "Where'd you learn to kiss like that?"

 _From you,_ Doc thought numbly. "A gentleman doesn't kiss and tell," he said.

"Right, right," Marty said as dismissively as he had before concerning the Shonash Ravine plan. "Now, see, here's the thing that confuses me, Doc—you didn't give any indication in 2015 that you even _remembered_ kissing me in 1955. That was kind of...I don't know. Harsh, don't you think?"

"What part of _ill-advised_ did you not understand?" Doc asked acidly, throwing his defenses up.

"What part of _you kissed me first, asshole_ did _you_ not understand?" Marty asked, his tone caught somewhere between amusement and annoyance. "In fact, you kissed me first _both times_ , so—"

Just then, a woman's shrill scream echoed across the ravine, followed by the thunder of hooves.

Doc and Marty looked up just in time to see a pair of horses go careening past at breakneck speed, pulling a woman astride the buckboard to which they were tethered. She was exceedingly well-dressed.

"Great Scott!" Doc shouted in alarm, letting his reflexes take over. "Come on!"

This was one of numerous times over the past eight months that Doc was eternally grateful that his father had made him take horseback-riding lessons when he was a teenager. While Marty might've been better able to hop onto the buckboard to stop the horses, Doc had outdistanced him too quickly for Marty to be of any use. He'd caught up to the buckboard, but the pair of horses were going much too fast for Doc to grab their reins and gentle them down from whatever had caused them to spook.

"Here!" Doc shouted to the woman, hoping to get her attention over the horses' din. "Here!"

The woman's head whipped around so that she finally faced him. "Hey!" she cried, dismayed.

Seeing the edge of the ravine loom up dangerously close, Doc finally shouted, "Jump!"

The woman flung herself, catching him around the shoulders and chest with an undignified yelp.

Two seconds later, the buckboard bounced sharply when it hit a large rock, and then went sailing directly toward the edge of the ravine. The buckboard's wheels hit another series of rocks, flipping the vehicle end over end before it disappeared over the precipice.

Heart pounding in his ears, Doc locked his arms more tightly around the woman as he stopped his horse.

Distantly, Doc heard Marty and his mount pull up short, but all he could see what the ravine, imagining all too well what could've happened to the well-dressed woman in his arms if he hadn't made it in time. Great Scott, if he hadn't even been there in the _first_ place—

"Oh!" said the woman, breathlessly. She sounded quite alert for all that had just happened.

Doc turned to her, still feeling a little numb with the shock of what had nearly transpired. When he saw her clearly for the first time, her bonnet hung ludicrously over her face. Maybe it was better that she hadn't witnessed what had happened to her belongings.

"Thank you, sir!" she exclaimed, reaching up with one hand to grab the back of her bonnet, pulling it back, setting it properly on her head. "You saved my—"

Doc gazed into her beautiful, intelligent hazel eyes and _stared_.

"Life…" she finished weakly, gazing back at him with equal consternation.

Doc reached up and removed his hat, still staring at her in amazement. "Emmett Brown, at your service, Miss," he said, feeling like a knight meeting his sworn lady for the first time.

"Um," she began, looking more than a little shocked herself. " _Um_." Her hat fell over her eyes again. "Clayton!" She fixed it and stared into Doc's eyes as she whispered, "Clara Clayton."

"Clara..." There was something about that name he was supposed to remember, but in the rush of having _literally_ just saved her life, Doc was having trouble placing it. The only thing he could recall was that it meant _clear_ in Latin. "What a beautiful name."

Marty cleared his throat unconvincingly, and that was when Doc remembered his manners.

"Miss Clayton, this is my apprentice, Marty—"

"Clint Martin Eastwood at your service, ma'am," Marty cut in, tugging on the brim of his hat and smiling politely. "Like he says, call me Marty." Doc could see that he was holding something in the same hand he was using to hold his reins, but Marty hid it from view the moment he saw Doc looking. When Doc frowned at him, Marty's smile turned brittle.

"Oh," Clara said curiously, as if trying to think of something, _anything_ to get her mind off the fact that she'd nearly just died. "Apprentice? What is it that you do?"

"Doc here—Mister Brown, I mean," Marty said, stumbling over the title. "He's the village blacksmith. I'm alone in the world, so I figured I'd better come out West and learn a useful trade."

Doc frowned at him again, wondering where on earth Marty could possibly be taking this. The last time Marty had fabricated some personal history, Doc had been introduced as Marty's uncle.

"A blacksmith!" Clara glanced around at their surroundings in amazement. "Goodness, why were the two of you all the way out _here_ , then? I certainly don't see any forge."

"The forge is back in town, Miss Clayton," Doc clarified. "We were just—"

"Working on a science experiment—" Marty cut in, a touch reproachfully.

"Collecting rock samples—" Doc said at the same time, scowling at Marty.

"A science experiment?" Clara looked from Doc to Marty. "Are the two of you scientists as well?"

Doc coughed hastily, hoping to stall the conversation. "Not really—"

Marty gave him a hard-eyed look, pushing forward. " _Yes_ , we—"

"What my _young_ apprentice here means to say," Doc said sharply, shooting Marty an aggravated glance, "is that we're amateurs at best, and we should really stop wasting your time and try to salvage what we can of your belongings. Marty, if you would do the honors?"

Marty gave Doc the sourest expression he'd seen since at _least_ 1984\. "Sure, and risk my own neck in the process? Wasn't you risking _yours_ bad enough?"

Doc gritted his teeth, trying to keep his voice even. "Considering that I'm going to have to get those horses back, I thought you could keep Miss Clayton company and attempt to do something _useful_ until I got back."

"Oh, that's quite all right," Clara protested. "I'm sure I can hire someone in town to help me get my things back. You've done so much already, I couldn't possibly—"

Doc shook his head. "I don't know how far it is to your schoolhouse, Miss Clayton, and I wouldn't want for you to be kept out till all hours of the night because one of us had to go on foot."

Clara gave him a long, considering look before nodding. "Well, in that case, Mister Brown, thank you."

Doc helped ease her down from the horse, and then turned in the direction the runaway horses had gone. "Marty, grab whatever you can, but don't try anything risky. We're not going to be able to get the bulk of Miss Clayton's things until we can get down to the bottom of the ravine."

Marty's look indicated he was thoroughly unimpressed. "Yes, _Dad_."

Doc gritted his teeth again and, with one last tip of his hat to Clara, rode off.

It took a couple of hours, but the horses had finally run out of steam and were grazing by the time Doc found them. When they weren't spooked, they were docile enough, following Doc's commands without resistance. Doc caught up to Marty and Clara, and, within half an hour, they had lashed up what Marty had been able to retrieve from the ravine's edge and started heading back to town. Every once in a while, when they found something else that had bounced off of the buckboard during Clara's perilous ride, Marty hopped off his horse, retrieved it, and added it to the pile on the pack-horse.

The residence that had been prepared for Clara next to the schoolhouse was modest, yet cozy. Doc helped Marty unload the pack-horse while Clara, over in the grass, was busy inspecting one long, badly scratched-up piece of luggage in particular. Before Doc could reach her to see what was the matter, she'd already snapped the case shut and straightened up, clutching the handle with both hands.

"I truly can't thank you enough for everything you've done," said Clara, outright beaming at him.

Doc shook his head. "It was no trouble at all, really. I'll speak to Mister Statler about the buckboard rental as soon as we get back into town; please don't worry about that. I feel partly responsible for what happened—" _If I had just picked her up from the station, she wouldn't have nearly died. Pop always said that actions have consequences we can't always predict. I need to remember that more often._

"That's very gentlemanly, Mister Brown, thank you," Clara replied.

"Please, call me Emmett," Doc offered. She _was_ truly lovely.

In the background, Marty released a tense breath that he couldn't quite manage to conceal.

"Emmett," Clara said tentatively, with a radiant smile. "Thank you. Although I think your apprentice is ready to get back to town. I won't keep you any longer."

Doc smiled, trying not to grit his teeth in frustration over Marty's behavior while facing her. "Marty gets impatient when he's hungry. I'm sure he can wait a few more minutes."

Marty cleared his throat a little more loudly than necessary.

Doc gritted his teeth, giving in, but offered an arm to Clara, determined to be polite. "Is there anything else that we can help you with?"

"No, no, I'm fine," Clara said, mounting the steps of the porch, and turning back to him. " _Really_. It won't take but a minute to get my things situated." She looked just past Doc's shoulder, and, as Doc watched, her smile faded by degrees, replaced by a fascinated curiosity. She turned her gaze back to Doc, her smile blossoming. "Thank you again for your help."

"You're welcome," Doc said, wondering what she had seen.

"Will I see you again?" Clara asked. "The two of you, I mean?"

"Of course." The words were out of Doc's mouth before he could stop them. "My forge is right in the middle of town, and if you need anything at _all_ repaired—"

Marty dismounted with a thump, stepping forward. "Doc, we don't want to keep Miss Clayton on her porch all night." He turned to her with a wistful smile, offering his palm. "Good luck with your teaching, ma'am."

Clara beamed at him with a kind of startled affection, shaking his hand. "Thank you, Marty."

Doc was about to add something further when Marty very deliberately nudged him. "C'mon, Doc. We'd better get going. It'll be dark soon, and we might have customers waiting."

Doc glared at Marty's back before smiling at Clara. "If you'll excuse us, Miss Clayton— _Clara_."

She waved indulgently. "Have a safe trip back to town, Mister Brown—er, _Emmett_."

Doc headed back to the horses, ignoring Marty's prickly expression, and mounted. With a wave in return, he tipped his hat to her, and then set them off at a sedate pace back toward town.

 

 

**Saturday, September 5, 1885**

Clara genuinely hoped that her telescope would prove as easy to fix as she thought. She might've been tempted to make the repair herself, but since she didn't have the proper tools or extensive knowledge of how telescopes were constructed, she thought it might be prudent to consult an expert.

The smithy had been easy to find—she'd been surprised at how just about _everything_ in town was easy to find, much easier than finding things in the sprawl of Chicago where she'd grown up—but when she knocked on the large doors, she didn't get a response.

"Hello?" she called, giving one last tentative knock. "Mister Brown?"

She could hear his voice on the other side of the doors, but whether he was speaking to someone or just muttering to himself, she wasn't sure. She gave the doors an experimental push, and they swung inward before she could prevent the action from announcing her presence. She cringed, stepping forward.

"Where are you standing now?" Emmett asked, frowning up at a monstrosity of a machine that looked like something straight out of the pages of a Jules Verne novel. "Marty? Can you still hear me? Over."

Before Clara could ask to whom Emmett was speaking, there was some sort of crackle, and then Marty's voice crackled out of thin air, " _Yeah, I'm here, Doc. I'm over by the livery stable now. Jeez, I didn't realize just how good the range on these things really is. Are you_ sure _you didn't soup them up back in 1985? Over._ "

" _Marty_ ," Emmett hissed, straightening up from his slouch, looking distinctly panicked. "Don't talk about that kind of thing too loudly! Over!"

" _Awww, c'mon, Doc,_ " Marty protested, just like any other teenager that Clara had ever had in her classroom. " _Who's going to pay attention to me here? I'm just going on boring errands for my blacksmithing teacher. Or is that master? Over._ "

Clara stood rooted to the spot, telling herself that she ought to leave and return later when she wasn't hearing things. That's when Emmett idly glanced in her direction, and then _yelped_.

"Great Scott!" he exclaimed, gaping at Clara as though she were a ghost. "When did you—"

Clara took an involuntary step back. "I'm so sorry!" She wasn't sure why she was apologizing, but it seemed like the best thing to do. "The door wasn't locked, and when I pushed—"

Emmett collected just enough of his wits to offer her a tight, apologetic smile. "Please," he said distractedly, "don't apologize, the fault is mine. I should've checked to see if the door was locked before we began our, ah, little experiment in...transmission of sound via radio-waves to..."

" _Doc!_ " Marty's voice roared out of the hand-held mechanical box that Emmett had been clutching in a white-knuckled grip. " _Doc, what the hell's going on in there?_ "

Clara watched as Emmett winced, pinching the bridge of his nose; he took several seconds to compose himself. She was dying to ask how on _earth_ he'd managed such an astounding breakthrough in long-range communication. James Clerk Maxwell and David Edward Hughes hadn't even come _close_ to accomplishing this kind of demonstrable results in their experiments to date.

When Marty burst into the smithy with another of those hand-held mechanical boxes in his hand, he was in a downright _flustered_ state. Clara set down her telescope and put up both hands, demonstrating she'd otherwise come unarmed. He sagged a little where he stood, relieved.

"Guess who forgot to _lock the door_ when he was leaving the building?" Emmett asked pointedly. Clara had asked that very same question of her students back in Illinois more times than she could count.

"Jesus, Doc, I thought someone was attacking you or something," Marty muttered. "Gimme a break."

"This is precisely _why_ I established those security protocols in the first place, Marty!" Emmett said sharply, gesticulating with the hand-held transmission device.

Clara had also witnessed her share of conflicts between couples back at home as well, although one half of said couples was usually a beleaguered wife. _This_ was a decided change of pace, but not unheard-of. She'd known even growing up that such people in the cities had to take great care.

As she watched them continue their argument, her presence momentarily forgotten, Clara looked at the mechanical monstrosity which dominated part of the room, knowing that if she were to show interest in it, perhaps she would succeed in defusing the argument before it escalated. Neither Emmett, nor Marty seemed like the type to start throwing plates at the other, but it never hurt to be prudent.

She was able to read a few of the gauges before Emmett and Marty remembered her presence.

"Ma'am," said Marty, sheepishly, removing his hat and clutching it to his chest before shooting Emmett a hard look, "excuse us."

"Gentlemen, it's perfectly fine. I see that I've come at a bad time," Clara said apologetically.

"No, not at all," Emmett said quickly, smiling contritely. "What is it that we can help you with?"

"Oh," said Clara, setting her telescope case aside on a nearby table, opening the clasps, "it's just that my telescope seems to have gotten damaged when it fell out of the buckboard. I'm very grateful it survived, but I think one of the lenses might have gotten jostled out of alignment. I was hoping, well, since you so kindly said I could come to you in case I required any repairs…"

"Of course," Emmett said smoothly, and, oh, if he hadn't already been involved with someone, Clara really _would_ have liked to've seen if there could have been something between them. He scooped the telescope from the case as gently as you please and peered into the eye-piece. He tilted the telescope upward, easing the focus with a steady hand. When he started twisting it to the right, he made an affirmative sound. "I see exactly what you mean." He lowered the telescope from his eye and smiled at her again. "This shouldn't take more than an hour. I'll have it ready for you by tomorrow morning."

"But this evening is the town festival," Clara objected. "I couldn't possibly ask you miss it just to work on this for me."

"Yeah, Doc," Marty said reasonably. "We should take a break from work. Live a little."

Emmett favored his protégé with a raised eyebrow and a dry expression. "We _have_ been living a little, Marty." At Marty's disappointed look, he sighed. "We need the break, however." He turned back to Clara. "With your permission, Miss Clayton, I'll have your telescope ready for you sometime tomorrow."

Clara couldn't help smiling in return. "Thank you, Emmett." Remembering herself, she nodded to Marty. "And you too, Marty. I'll see you two tonight at the festival."

As she left the smithy, with the pair still offering polite farewells, Clara decided that she was _determined_ to learn more about the huge machine and those long-range communicators at a later time. For now, it was best to let her involvement with them develop at its own pace.

 

 

***

 

 

When Marty admonished Emmett to smile, Clara couldn't help grinning behind her gloved hand. Both Emmett and Marty had beckoned her to stand in the picture, but she'd always hated having her picture taken—if she didn't turn out looking too severe, then her features tended to come off as regrettably pointed. As it stood, Marty had adopted the self-assured slouch of young men the world over; meanwhile, Emmett looked as if someone had run an electrical charge through his entire body.

"That wasn't so bad, was it?" she said once the flash-bulb had gone off, in an attempt to mitigate the silliness of what would come back in the daguerreotype. She wanted them to remember this fondly.

"No, no," Doc said, blinking owlishly to clear his vision. "Pictures are excellent keepsakes for commemorating important occasions."

"And what's more important than the courthouse clock dedication?" Marty added, blinking as well. "It's one of Hill Valley's most prominent features—or, well, it _will_ be."

Clara nodded politely, not always certain why Marty chose to say things in the present tense instead of the future tense. She thought she'd heard his voice over the transmission device say something even stranger, a number or a year so advanced it had made little sense. What did nineteen hundred and eighty-five have to do with _anything_? Perhaps it was some kind of mechanical setting for operating the devices themselves. She made a mental note to ask Emmett about it later.

The musicians onstage chose that moment to strike up a jig, silencing the general hum of voices.

"What great music!" said Emmett over the noise of the crowd and the music, tapping his foot. It was startling to see, and more than a little endearing. He had a decent sense of rhythm, too.

"Yeah," Marty agreed, and he didn't seem to intend the statement as sarcasm, either. "It's got a beat, and you can dance to it!" He clapped his hands idly, and Clara wondered if either of them played a musical instrument as well as they constructed sensitive and complex pieces of machinery.

Clara wasn't quite certain how to explain what happened in the next few seconds, but it involved Marty casting a glance at Emmett that was nothing short of _yearning_ and Emmett completely failing to notice. Still tapping his foot to the music, he grinned over his own foolishness, offering Clara his hand.

 _Can you not see what's right in front of you?_ she thought, completely baffled, fixing Emmett with a questioning look. _He wishes he could have this with you, but he can't. Are you blind?_

"Would you care to dance, Clara?" Emmett asked with a winning smile. "You doubtless know your steps better than Marty would know his. I had lessons when I was a kid; what about you?"

Marty looked offended for a moment before he looked around at the couples, nodding in slow acknowledgement. "Yeah, you go on ahead. My parents weren't society people. I never learned."

From the looks on both Emmett and Marty's faces, Clara could tell insults had been traded, but exactly what they had been, she wasn't sure. She cleared her throat just enough to catch their attention, and smiled at Emmett. "I've been keeping in practice. Before I came to Hill Valley, I was teaching in a tiny farming community just outside of Springfield, Illinois. I offered dancing lessons after class."

"Is there anything you can't do, Miss Clayton?" Emmett asked slyly, taking her hand ever so gallantly, leading her out to the nearest open space on the dance floor.

"Finding a gentleman who appreciates science as much as I do, and who isn't _involved_ with anyone," Clara admitted. When she saw the stunned look on Emmett's face, the laughter bubbled right out of her. "Oh, Emmett, the look on your face! I'm sorry for teasing you."

"Teasing me about what?" Emmett asked, swinging them into the fray with practiced ease.

Clara couldn't help laughing again. "Emmett, just _look_ at him over there, won't you?"

Marty had his arms folded across his chest, no longer clapping in time with the music. He was trying his best not to glower, but he wasn't succeeding. There seemed to be a gentleman with what looked like a gun-belt in hand trying to catch his interest; after a few seconds of seeming to brush him off, Marty finally assented to whatever sport the gentleman was proposing and went off with him.

When Clara turned back to him, Emmett was frowning as he followed Marty's progress.

"See?" Clara asked gently. "You ought to go gentler on him; he almost lost you yesterday."

The look in Emmett's eyes grew haunted for just a moment before he smiled at her, shaking his head. "I wasn't in any danger of plunging into the ravine, Clara. _You_ were."

"Don't you go all dismissive on _me_ , Mister," said Clara, lightly slapping his shoulder. "You could've gone over just as easily as I could have, and you _know_ it. Marty was worried sick."

"I'm a better rider than Marty is," Emmett explained. "I had more than enough space to stop in time—"

At that moment, they had danced into a corner; Emmett froze, his eyes wide. Clara was about to ask him what was wrong when a low, growling voice said, "I told you to watch your back, smithy."

"Tannen," Emmett muttered, attempting to remain civil, and then, irrelevantly, "but you're early."

"It's a Derringer, smithy," Tannen whispered into Emmett's ear. "Small, but effective. Last time I used it, the fella took two whole _days_ to die. Bled to death inside, it was _real_ painful. That means you'd be dead by about suppertime Monday."

Clara did her best to keep calm, attempting to think clearly. She moved in closer to Emmett, placing her hand on his shoulder. "Excuse me. I don't know who you think you are, but we're _dancing_."

Just like she knew he would, the brute took the bait. "Well, looky what we have here. Ain't you gonna introduce me to the lady? I'd like a dance," Mad Dog drawled mockingly.

Emmett turned around, his voice clear, strong, and downright _furious_. "I wouldn't give you the pleasure; you'll just have to go ahead and _shoot_."

 _Emmett, you absolute fool!_ Clara thought viciously. _You'd risk widowing poor Marty again?_

The Derringer was pressed against the underside of Emmett's chin in a flash.

"No, no!" Clara said, moving forward quickly. "Emmett, I'll dance with him!"

"Boys, keep the blacksmith company while I get acquainted with the filly!" Mad Dog ordered before yanking her into his arms, swaying with such a lack of coordination that Clara swore that the brute was drunk. " _Whoo_!" he exclaimed, and Clara turned her face away. "Ha ha ha, _yeah_!"

As dances went, it wasn't the least competent she'd ever endured, but it certainly rated as one of the _worst_ , because every time she caught sight of Emmett, he looked fit to be tied. What she needed to do, first and foremost, was get that gun out of Tannen's hand. How the deputies at the entrance to the festival had missed it, Clara didn't know, but she loathed the revelation that Tannen had clearly had another nasty surprise hidden on his person.

"I don't dance very well when my partner has a gun in his hand," insisted Clara, tartly, determined not to crack. She'd had to twist her head away from Tannen's searching lips and horrible breath several times to prevent him from kissing her.

"You'll learn, you'll learn," Mad Dog grunted, his mind obviously and _disgustingly_ in his trousers. "You know, smithy, maybe I'll just take my eighty dollars' worth out of _her_!"

While Clara was trying to recover from the blast of spirits she got directly to her nose, she could hear Emmett screaming for Tannen to let her go. She wished he wouldn't make such a fuss; the situation had escalated alarmingly enough as it was. That the deputies hadn't noticed was simply _appalling_.

"Yeah, I believe there's something you can do that's worth eighty dollars," Mad Dog leered.

Clara laughed right in his face. "I believe you've underestimated me, Mister," she replied.

"Oh, have I now?" Mad Dog asked smugly. Men like him thought they knew everything.

Clara lifted her foot and jammed her knee up right between his legs. She'd never had to try the maneuver before, but the results were _most_ gratifying. Mad Dog howled in pain, staggering back, using his hand on her shoulder to shove her to the ground. Clara huffed as she landed, indignant.

"Stop it! _Stop_ it!" Emmett shouted, wrestling his way free of Tannen's men. "Damn you, Tannen!"

"No, I damn _you_ ," Tannen said, lifting his gun, pointing it at Emmett. "I damn you to hell!"

Before Clara had a chance to scream, a gun-shot rang out from only a few feet behind her. The next thing she knew, Buford was a hunched and howling mess in the dust, his men scrabbling to his aid, and Emmett had her by the shoulders, dragging her out of the fray as swiftly as he possibly could.

"The gun," Clara gasped, fighting Emmett's grasp, getting to her feet. "The Derringer. He dropped it. We need to make sure nobody takes it," she continued, casting about till her eyes fell on the weapon. It was covered in Mad Dog's blood, so she picked it up by the barrel, holding it out at arm's length.

Marshall Strickland and his deputies swarmed the dance floor a minute later, making sure the citizens were unharmed. Tannen's thugs scattered just as quickly as their leader had fallen, leaving him behind.

Clara marched up to the nearest law-man, who happened to be the Marshall himself. She tapped him politely on the arm; as he turned to face her, she proffered the Derringer. "That scoundrel tried to shoot my _very_ good friend, Emmett Brown, with this," she said, with only a slight quaver in her voice. "That upstanding young man over _there_ ," she said, pointing in Marty's direction, only to discover that—oh, be still her heart, _finally_ —Emmett had rushed to his side, "is your hero."

Marshall Strickland looked her in the eye, and nodded once. "Thank you for your testimony, ma'am. If we have any further questions, we'll let you know."

Clara nodded before heading for Emmett and Marty, who were staring intently at a small, rectangular piece of paper. She couldn't help but notice that Emmett had his arm around a shaking Marty's shoulders. Judging from how unsteady he looked, Marty looked like he'd never shot anyone before, although his aim certainly suggested otherwise.

"That's it, Doc!" Marty looked up from the paper to grin at Emmett. "We did it! We changed—"

" _Shhh_!" Emmett hissed, glancing around before catching sight of Clara. He looked suddenly guilty, letting go of Marty, closing the distance between them. "Clara, are you all right?"

Clara nodded impatiently. "I'm perfectly fine, Emmett." She turned to Marty, hoping that Emmett would realize just who _really_ needed his attention at that moment. "Marty, are you all right? I saw that shot you took. I've never seen marksmanship so impressive in my life!"

Marty gave her a wan smile, tipping his hat. "All in the line of duty, ma'am. At your service."

Clara was relieved to see Emmett wrap a protective arm back around Marty's shoulders. "Thank you, Marty," Emmett said softly, his tone low and warm. "I'd be dead right now if it weren't for you."

Marty paled a few shades, but his smile brightened. "All in a day's work, Doc. Like I said."

 _Oh, you two,_ Clara thought to herself. If they had been a more traditional sort of married couple, they would've kissed each other then and there, and no one would've thought anything of it. "I don't know about you, gentlemen," she sighed, "but I could do with a change of scenery."

They got back to the smithy in what was surely record time, and Emmett got Marty situated in a chair before Clara could even suggest that he do so. He went over to the desk and pulled something out of the cabinet underneath, carrying it back to where Marty sat with Clara standing at his side.

"Here." Emmett offered the bottle, which was half full, sounding apologetic. "After what happened—"

"Doc," Marty said firmly, giving him a hard look. "I'm going to drink all of your bourbon, and I am _not_ paying you back, got it?" He accepted the bottle when it wasn't immediately withdrawn. "I don't care how much this stuff is worth here," he muttered, working the cork free. When he noticed Clara hovering, Marty made a shooing motion at the pair of them. "You should offer her some tea."

Clara turned, frowning at Emmett. "Tea? I mean, if you've got a kettle, I wouldn't _mind_."

Emmett smiled. "Not at all. It should help mitigate the hangover Marty's sure to have tomorrow."

Making the tea took a few minutes, given that the battered tea kettle didn't seem to sit correctly on the stove until Emmett set it _just_ so. What was astonishing, however, was that he went over to the monstrous machine, where he started cranking levers and opening pressure valves.

"Emmett?" Clara asked tentatively. "What on _earth_ are you doing?"

"Wait'll you see this," Marty muttered, taking a long pull from the bottle. "It's heavy."

Clara glanced at him in concern before Emmett said, "Quick, turn that dial all the way to the right!"

Caught up in watching the machine belch out steam as it made high whistling noises, Clara did as she was told, wondering what would happen next. She had never seen anything like this in her _life_.

She watched, rapt, as Emmett grabbed a bowl and held it under a pipe that emitted a white cloud. A second later, something about the size of a robin's egg plinked into it. He fetched a pair of metal tongs, picked up the brownish-white lump, and grinned at it before dropping it into one of the glasses of tea.

"Iced tea?" Emmett offered, and it was then she noticed that the glasses were, in fact, beakers.

Clara's eyes widened, first at the glass, and then at the machine. "It...what _is_ it?" she breathed, mystified. Accepting the tea, she nonetheless dropped to a stoop and began a thorough inspection of Emmett's machine from the ground up.

"Refrigerator unit," Marty managed, taking another swig of bourbon. " _Kinda_. Freezer, maybe?"

"Marty's exaggerating a little," Emmett said. "It just makes ice. Of course, given how unsanitary the water is here, the output leaves something to be desired, but it'll cool your drink well enough."

"Unsanitary in comparison to where I come from, too," Clara said darkly. "Is there no treatment plant out here?" She sipped the tea, allowing that it wasn't terrible, but it could've used sugar. "My next question is, would you permit me to take this apart so I can see how it works?" she asked, grinning.

"Are you kidding?" Marty slurred, tipping the bottle to his lips a third time. "Doc would sooner drink the damn water straight than let you do _that_. This thing's one of a kind. Oh, and it _works_."

At first, Emmett looked comically aghast, but by the end of Marty's remarks, he displayed the kind of annoyance that only tended to come with years of long, _fond_ acquaintance. "It's not the only thing I've invented that works, Marty," he said almost petulantly.

Clara set the beaker aside on the floor and leapt to her feet, clapping wildly. "I _knew_ you were a scientist, so there's no use pretending otherwise, not now that you've owned up to inventing things!"

"The rest of this story," Marty muttered into the bottle, "will blow your goddamn _mind_."

"Marty," Emmett said in a stern, warning tone. "There's no need to go frightening our guest."

Clara turned to Emmett expectantly. "Oh, you don't have to chide him, Emmett. I've already seen some of your work, and it's not frightening at all. I'm keen to learn about those radio-wave transmitters, too."

Emmett whipped around to look at her, his eyes wide. "What do you mean, _transmitters_?"

Clara sighed, giving him a chiding look of her own. "You _know_ what I'm talking about."

"Hey, uh, Doc," said Marty, teetering perilously in his seat. "I kinda...kinda don't feel so, _um_..."

It took Clara _and_ Emmett rushing to Marty's side to keep him upright, and, between the two of them, they transferred him from the chair to the Chesterfield. Clara stood with the bottle in hand, taking an idle swig as she watched Emmett lay Marty out and remove his boots with care. The bourbon was decent (better than the tea, if she was honest), but she couldn't help putting her scientific curiosity on hold to witness this oddly intimate display. _What_ is _your story?_ she wondered.

And she might have remained fixated on precisely that rumination, even, if her eye hadn't momentarily wandered to where Marty's hand had fallen and lit on something brightly-colored that hovered— _hovered_ —just beneath the sofa. Disbelieving, she took another sip of bourbon.

"Emmett," she said quietly, watching him stroke Marty's hair back from his forehead, "are you going to tell me what in God's _name_ is going on here, or am I going to have to thrash it out of you?"

Emmett turned to her, looking so startled that Clara wondered if he'd forgotten she was there. Catching on, his eyes flicked down to Marty's dangling hand and the strange object it had inadvertently drawn to Clara's attention. With a heavy sigh, he took Marty's hand, set it gently back on Marty's chest, and then snagged the unusual object from its hiding place. He spun the hovering thing out into plain view, fixing Clara with a wry, apologetic expression.

"Hoverboard," said Emmett, with an uncharacteristically weak laugh. "Experimental prototype, of course. How does it strike you?"

"It's very...vibrant," Clara said slowly, giving Emmett her best stern-teacher look. "How does it work?"

"He doesn't even know," Marty mumbled, throwing one arm up over his eyes. " _Ugh_. Lights."

Clara raised her eyebrows pointedly at Emmett. "You don't know how your own prototype works?"

"S'not his," Marty sighed, curling into the back of the sofa, groaning weakly. "We got it in the—"

"Be _quiet_ now, you're going to make yourself sick," Emmett murmured, stroking Marty's hair.

Clara shook her head at them in bafflement. "If it's not yours," she said, "then whose is it? Where did you get it?" When Emmett refused to answer, she shook her head disapprovingly at him. "Marty's been more forthcoming than you've been, and he isn't even in his right mind!"

Marty stirred again, fishing awkwardly in his back pocket. He held out what looked like a piece of paper, brandishing it in Clara's direction without actually turning to look at her.

Emmett attempted to snatch it away, but, even two bourbon-shots down, Clara was faster.

"This appears to be a photograph of a blank tombstone," she said testily. "Marty, _what_ —"

Marty cringed, curling up into a wretched ball. The sound he choked out was barely human.

"Just as you said, Clara, Marty _clearly_ isn't in his right mind," Emmett said firmly, snatching the photograph back from her.

"Does the number nineteen hundred and eighty-five mean anything to you?" Clara challenged.

Emmett fixed her with a calculating glare, pieces of information adding up. "Just a setting for another machine I'm working on. I assume you heard Marty relay it to me over the walkie-talkies earlier."

Clara had just about had enough. She drank what remained of the bourbon in one long gulp, turning to the nearest piece of furniture that _wasn't_ the Chesterfield so she could set down the empty bottle. "If I didn't know any better," she accused, "I'd say you were hiding an _awfully_ big secret. For as much trust as I've placed in you these past twenty-four hours, you certainly haven't placed a reciprocal amount in _me_!"

"Jesus," Marty muttered into the sofa cushion. "You're seriously blowing this. Just _tell_ her."

"I don't need comments from the peanut gallery, _thank you_ ," Emmett snapped, but when Marty whimpered and curled in tighter on himself, he reached for the boy instinctively, comforting him. "Marty, you _really_ should get some rest. I'll take care of it."

Marty groaned louder, and, this time, uncurled from his self-defensive hunch. He righted himself with some trouble, gracing Emmett with a bleary-eyed glare before turning to Clara. "Okay, let's get a few things clear," he said, looking like it was taking monumental effort to speak coherently. "We're from the _year_ 1985." He jabbed an accusing finger at Emmett. " _He's_ got the hots for you." His eyes widened suddenly. "And _I_ am going to be sick."

While Clara fetched the nearest thing she could find—a metal tub of some indeterminate purpose, but never mind that _now_ —and held it steady while Marty retched, Emmett stood staring awkwardly at the two of them. Clara gave him the most chastising look she could possibly manage.

"As it happens," said Emmett, his tone tentative and apologetic, "I don't. Although I'm sorry if I—"

"You don't what?" Clara shot back, setting the bin aside; Marty was finished, but he was so pale and weak now that she was sure he'd lose consciousness at any second. "Come from the year 1985?"

Marty sagged forward in Clara's arms, completely dead-weight, so she eased him back against the Chesterfield as carefully as she could manage. He'd been through so much in the past twenty-four hours that it was a miracle he hadn't hit this point earlier, she couldn't help but think.

"Have the _hots_ for you, as Marty so colorfully put it," Emmett sighed. "Forgive me."

"I know _that_ ," Clara said impatiently. "Tannen, now, _he_ had the hots for me. There's a difference. I wasn't born yesterday, you know, and even if you _had_ been interested, you certainly wouldn't have been my first!"

Rather than look offended, as so many other men of good breeding might have done, Emmett looked confused. "Why should that matter? What you've done with your love life is no concern of mine."

Clara blinked at him, momentarily startled, wanting to make sure she'd understood. "Excuse me?"

Emmett shrugged, looking a little embarrassed now. "I have no right to judge you _or_ your choices. Whose company you've kept over time should have no bearing on our friendship."

Clara stared at him. "Now I _know_ you're from the future," she said. "No man in this century has _ever_ been so level-headed about a woman's history, and that's a fact."

Emmett grinned sheepishly. "Well, there's a first time for everything, I suppose?"

Clara smiled. "Are you going to tell me the truth now? About where you come from?"

Emmett stared at her for a long moment before he nodded, sighing gently. "Yes, Clara. I will. Please take a seat. I'd offer you more bourbon, but I fear I'm out. This may take a while."

 

 

**Tuesday, September 8th, 1885**

"You would never know it had been damaged," Clara said in amazement, drawing back from the lens.

Emmett shrugged modestly, but she could tell he was pleased with himself. "It was no trouble at all."

Marty rolled his eyes and picked at the blanket on which they were sitting, quite thoroughly recovered from his weekend hangover. "Remind me again what we're looking at up there, huh?"

"The Lunar Maria are a fascinating subject," said Clara, gesturing to the lens. "See for yourself?"

Marty snuck a quick glance at Emmett and Clara before shrugging. "I'll take your word for it." As Clara watched, he seemed to have come to some resolute, unspoken decision in his mind. Exaggerating a long stretch, he got up from the blanket and dusted off the back of his trousers. "I think all that lounging around this weekend's left me kinda stiff. I think I'll go for a little walk, maybe look around at the place and see if it's where the high school winds up in 1955."

"You're not going to be able to see many landmarks while it's this dark, Marty," Emmett pointed out.

Marty indicated the moon. "I think I'll be able to see well enough. You kids have fun stargazing."

Before either Doc or Clara could protest, Marty set off at a brisk pace, his poncho flapping.

Clara watched him go with a considering look. "I think we've just been given privacy. Care to explain what's going on this time, Emmett? Why won't you reassure him that you're not about to leave him?"

"Of course I'm not about to leave him," Emmett said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "Our plan to get back to 1985 hinges on the two of us working together _and_ returning together."

Clara stared at him in astonishment. "For such a brilliant man, you can be so _dense_."

Sitting back as the breeze picked up, Emmett blinked at her, troubled. "What do you mean?"

"I _mean_ , your boy just stormed off because he thinks you're going to kiss me under the stars," Clara said, her exasperation mounting. "I don't know what you did in order to win him in the first place, but I think you're going to have to redouble your efforts if you mean to keep him."

"Win? _Keep_ —" Emmett's eyes widened. "Wait a minute. We don't have that kind of relationship."

Clara waved a hand dismissively. "I'm not interested in handing you over to the authorities. You two are the most wonderful friends that I've made out here so far—well, the _only_ friends I've made out here so far—and I mean to keep you for as long as I can. What you do behind closed doors is entirely your business."

"Clara, you misunderstand," Emmett said, his tone urgent. "We _don't_ have that kind of relationship. At all."

Clara frowned at him, perplexed. "Not at all?"

Emmett shook his head, his expression wistful. "No."

"But…you _do_ want to," Clara said firmly. "Correct?"

Emmett gave a heavy sigh. "I see you've found me out."

"Emmett, you're only as obvious as the parents of the children I taught in Illinois," Clara said dryly. At Emmett's panicked glance, she sighed. "I only picked up on the signs because I've seen you two together at the smithy when you're not working on a paying job. It's blindingly obvious."

Emmett began to breathe a bit easier. "We can deal with that, I suppose. We haven't encountered any resistance since Marty's arrival. Not unless you count Tannen, but something tells me he's out of the picture."

Clara nodded solemnly. "When you were telling me about your adventures traveling through time, you mentioned that there had been a snag in the process. Was Marty arriving here in 1885 that snag?"

Emmett's eyes narrowed up at the moon as he thought, but Clara kept her gaze steady on his profile.

"It is, but it looks like there might be another snag developing," Emmett admitted slowly, turning to Clara. "Marty and I have hit so many snags ever since that first temporal experiment that it's become difficult to keep track of them all."

"But what about this new snag that's developing?" Clara pressed gently. "Tell me about it."

"I think that Marty's time traveling isn't finished yet," he said softly, ashamed and worried.

"How so?" Clara frowned. As long as they'd been traveling mostly together, she couldn't see—

"There have been four pivotal points in my life that Marty's been part of," Emmett said, holding up his hand and counting with his fingers, starting with his pinkie. "You already know about three of them—1955, 1985, and here in 1885."

Clara frowned, trying to absorb as much as possible. "What year is your index finger?"

"1938," Emmett said, unfolding it. "I turned eighteen during the time he was there."

Drawing in her breath, Clara looked up from his hand to study his face. "And you think Marty hasn't been there yet?"

"From what he tells me, he convinced my thirty-five year old self to send him to 1885." Emmett looked her in the eye and shook his head. "He has no reason to lie. Every time that he's time traveled, it's been because he feels he has to fix some mistake we've made. Or he's been trying to get home to 1985."

Clara reached for his hand, trying to reassure him. "Emmett, it's not your fault that he's here."

"Yes, it is," Emmett murmured. "His sense of loyalty to friends and family is unparalleled. He came here because he found my tombstone at Boot Hill Cemetery in 1955, thereby discovering that I'd only lived for six days after I'd written him a letter to let him know that I was all right."

Clara frowned. "Emmett, that poor boy's been through so much, he should've hightailed it home when he had a working time machine on his hands. But he didn't." When Emmett hung his head, she reached out and touched his shoulder. "Marty's here, in 1885, because he didn't want to think of you dying a few days after you sent him a letter. He was worried enough to risk his neck coming after you."

"He didn't _need_ to," Emmett said, his voice raspy with tears, even though his cheeks were dry. "Six days, six _years_ , what's the difference? My tombstone would've been in that cemetery one way or another. It's not like I would've been able to live for a hundred and thirty years."

Clara squeezed his shoulder. With any other man in 1885, the gesture would've been seen as over-familiarity, but with Emmett, she knew that he would treat it as a gesture from a friend. "Marty needed you to live more than he needed to spend the rest of his life safe at home."

Emmett closed his eyes, features pinched, as if he knew what she was going to say next.

"Emmett," Clara said resolutely, "don't you see? That boy loves you more than life itself."

"And that means he's going to travel through time again, possibly to fix some other error or, worse yet, to save my neck," Emmett said gravely, "and I don't know whether or not I'll be there with him."

Clara shook him since gentler touches hadn't seemed to work. "You have _got_ to talk to him," she said firmly. "Tell him about this fourth time-period, it could be _crucial_ —"

"No," Emmett said, looking terror-stricken. "I _mustn't_ do anything to disrupt his future!"

"He might make things worse if he blunders in there without knowing what he's doing," Clara snapped. "Do you want him to get _killed_?"

"He doesn't get killed in 1938," Emmett said quickly. Surprisingly enough, he _blushed_.

Clara narrowed her eyes at him, realization dawning. "You said you turned eighteen that year?"

Emmett cleared his throat. "Yes, I did." He was very pointedly _not_ looking at her.

Clara stared back up at the stars in an attempt at propriety; she felt immensely sorry for him in that moment, but it was also taking every last shred of her willpower not to _laugh_. "So," she began, clearing her throat to keep from losing her composure, "your dashing beau was there for you. Was it a turning point in your life _and_ in your relationship?"

Emmett nodded once, cheeks still pink. "Yes. To both of those things."

Clara was afire with unholy curiosity now. "May I ask what happened? If you don't wish to disclose particulars, you're perfectly within your rights not to do so. A summary would suffice."

Emmett looked up at the moon. "He saved me from a life of drudgery working as a law clerk for my father _and_ gave me the strength to follow my dreams, and how have I repaid him? He's lucky he knows what day it is, much less the year. It's because of my time machine he's even _in_ this mess."

Clara raised her eyebrows, distinctly impressed. "He did all of that for you at eighteen?"

Emmett snorted, closing his eyes. "He was also my first love, if you take my meaning."

Clara regretted leaving her fan back at the house; there wasn't enough fresh air in the _world_ for these revelations, least of all the one to which she'd just been privy. "Emmett, that's no small thing."

"No, it's not," Emmett agreed evenly. "I've missed him every night since, but I don't have to tell you that."

"If the year in which you first conducted your temporal experiments was 1985…" Clara frowned, doing the calculations in her head. "Then you've been waiting..." Her breath left her again; his loss was _staggering_.

"Forty-seven years, if I leave out the months I've spent in other time periods," Emmett said.

"God in heaven," she whispered, finding surrender to the phrase something akin to blasphemy.

"Because he's been living my life out of order, he had no idea why I was in so much pain when I saw him again in 1955," Emmett explained to the sky, "or how harrowing it was to befriend him when he was fifteen, knowing what I knew about his life and how it had _already_ intersected with mine."

Clara had begun to nod slowly. She was content to let him speak for as long as he needed, but, heaven help her _indeed_ , she wouldn't be able to hold her tongue for much longer.

"He did so much for me, but he doesn't know that it's all yet to happen in his future." Emmett shook his head. "I've loved him for so long, but I can't force us into a happy ending just because it's what _I_ want. I already made a terrible mistake in 1955 that _might_ have been the catalyst for Marty's feelings for me now, and it would be wrong of me to take advantage of that without telling him about how much of an effect he's had on my life. But I can't reveal to him that he's had this effect on my life, because, for him, it hasn't _happened_ yet."

In spite of herself, Clara was beginning to lose patience. "Forgive me if this is an impertinent question," she said, "but which one of you started things off, so to speak, in 1938?"

That snapped Emmett out of his blackly pensive mood. He shot her a confused look before thinking back. "If you're referring to the relationship—" his eyes widened in realization "— _I_ did."

Clara couldn't hold it in any longer; she laughed until she couldn't breathe, but not in mockery. There was as much joy in this as there was hardship. If only she could make Emmett _see_ that.

"That's not a terribly encouraging response," Emmett grumbled. "Although you don't _sound_ like you're making fun of me, so I'm going to thank the stars out there for small favors."

"Emmett Brown, you're a _mess_ ," Clara said fondly, "but I think there's hope for you yet."

"I don't see much hope from where I'm sitting," Emmett confessed. "Would you care to explain?"

"If Marty hadn't wanted a relationship," Clara said sensibly, "don't you think he would've found a way to…reject your advances as gently as possible? From what you've said, he seemed perfectly willing."

Emmett shifted uncomfortably, but he was listening. "Well, since you put it like that," he said, plucking at the blanket just as Marty had done earlier, "now I feel like a _right_ fool."

"You've waited almost fifty _years_ , Emmett," Clara said. "Will you disappoint _him_ , too? Just think of what must've been going through his head while you were on the run in 2015 and in that hellish alternate version of 1985. You gave him absolutely _no indication_ —"

Emmett's expression turned solemn. "He didn't need to be distracted by romantic feelings while we were trying to fix our mistakes. Especially not when his future self has a wife and children in danger."

" _Had_ , Emmett," Clara said firmly. "Marty is devoted to whomever he's gifted his heart. I know that much. There are no wife and children waiting in his future. It's _you_ who's waited."

"Can you see why I just can't _do_ that to him, Clara?" Emmett implored, spreading his hands.

"You're not _doing_ anything to him," Clara exclaimed. "He's an adult, and he's making his own choices. He's of sound mind and body, and he's already chosen you _how_ many times now?"

Emmett considered that for a moment, blinking in astonishment. "There was never a time he _didn't_ choose me, I see that now," he whispered. "What good would counting do?"

Clara tried not to count her chickens before they hatched, but she felt a smile coming on. "So…?"

"So you've given me quite a lot to sleep on," said Doc, grinning at her, somewhat daunted.

"Emmett Lathrop Brown," Clara seethed, "if you don't go find that boy and talk to him _soon_ , I swear before all that is holy, I will drag you to him and _make_ you!"

Emmett held up a hand, waving it gently as if to calm her. "Your point's well and truly made."

Clara bumped Emmett's shoulder with her own harder than was strictly necessary. "He's in bad shape," she said. "You saw the way he left us. He fully expects you're out here proposing to me this instant."

Emmett glanced at her in sudden, indignant alarm. "How could that possibly be? You and I aren't—"

" _I_ know that, and _you_ know that, but _he_ doesn't," Clara said patiently. "He's been nudging the two of us together for the past few days. He thinks he's being very noble, sacrificing his happiness for the sake of yours and mine. He needs to work on his subtlety, of course, but he's young."

Emmett stared at her, aghast. "How could I have let this happen? Surely it's one more sign I'm not fit—"

"Just because you're oblivious when he's _yearning_ doesn't make you unsuited, Emmett," Clara said firmly. "It just makes you oblivious." _And also kind of an idiot_ , she thought wanly.

"Then you're right, there's no way around it," Emmett sighed. "I've got to talk to him sooner than not."

Clara nodded firmly, satisfied with how the conversation had gone. "Good," she said, "because I think he's on his way back to us now. Doesn't he just cut a lonely, lovely figure out there against the sky?"

Emmett turned his head quickly, and sure enough, there was Marty's silhouette, his hat firmly on his head, his poncho flapping in the night breeze. He raised a hand to wave, and Marty waved back.

"One more thing," Clara said, getting to her feet, offering Emmett her hand. "What did you say his name was the other night? I mean his _real_ name? I'm ashamed to say I forget."

"His name," Doc sighed, "is Martin Seamus McFly, and he is, for better or for worse, mine."

 

 

**Wednesday, September 9, 1885**

Clara rose early the next morning in spite of the late evening they'd all had, feeling better-rested than she had in _days_. She dressed with care, choosing her lavender traveling ensemble; she wasn't strolling any further than town, but one did want to keep up appearances if one did not know _precisely_ what one was going to find on arrival at one's destination. If Emmett and Marty had had a long night for _other_ reasons (and, goodness, she hoped she'd find they _had_ ), she'd at least look put-together enough to set them at ease.

This time, the smithy door _was_ locked, so she gave three tentative, well-spaced raps.

Marty answered the door almost immediately after the third, alert but otherwise weary-looking.

"Hey," he said, offering her a tired grin. "You just can't stay away, can you? Come on in."

Clara nodded her thanks, following him inside, only to discover that there was a new fixture in the center of the room that was suspiciously covered by a canvas cloth. "You've been busy," she said, letting her eyes drift over it before letting them come to rest on what looked like an extensive miniature railroad model of the outlying countryside. "What's this? New invention planning in the works?"

Marty closed the door and locked it again. "Not really. Just an idea Doc's got. You just missed him, by the way. He's running an errand, but he should be back in a little while." Her rubbed the back of his neck as he headed over to the stove. "Want some tea?" he asked. "No dirty ice this time, I promise."

Clara smiled, touched by his thoughtful gesture. "I would love some, thank you."

Marty seemed to breathe out in relief; doubtless having something to do would help focus his poor, frazzled nerves. "I guess you must've had a great time last night," he said, pouring her a mug of whatever was in the kettle. She doubted they kept track of their tea-blend types as closely as she did.

"Emmett and I had a lovely time, thank you," Clara said. "Although we both missed you. Did you find what you were looking for out there? Where your school is going to be someday?"

Marty's shoulders tensed for a moment before he shook his head, offering her a strained smile. "Doc was right. It's hard to tell where everything is without being able to see landmarks, and half the landmarks I know haven't even been built yet."

"That's a shame," Clara said gently. "Did you two have a good night after you got back here?"

Marty shot her a confused glance. "It was all right? I slept like a log." The dark circles under his eyes and his aura of exhaustion indicated otherwise. "I'm still a bit rattled from the festival, I guess, but…"

"I know I said this before, but it bears repeating," Clara said. "You did a very brave thing that night. No one would've faulted you if you'd killed Tannen on the spot."

Marty went even paler than he already looked. "Yeah, well...he's got descendants that I've dealt with in 1985. Not all of 'em are basta—" He caught himself in time and said lamely, "Um, bad people. Can't disrupt the timeline just because their ancestor was going to put a bullet in Doc."

Clara couldn't help but smirk. "Thank you for protecting my delicate sensibilities, Marty."

Marty rubbed the back of his neck again; she found the frequency of his nervous habit endearing. "You're a lady, Clara. Mom would've _killed_ me if I'd sworn in front of you."

Clara didn't believe that either, but she took pity on him. "Then you've done your mother proud."

Marty snorted. "It's not like there's a time-travel etiquette guide. Better too polite than too rude?"

Clara wondered if she had an opening. "Would you be offended if I took a liberty, then?"

Marty blinked. "No…?" He looked at her curiously. "What's up?"

"I'm awfully concerned about what you must think of me," Clara admitted, "and I'd very much like to set the record straight, if you'd permit it? I had no intention of upsetting your status quo."

Marty's expression softened, his eyes flicking up to hers vaguely embarrassed concern. "You're a really nice lady, Clara, and Emmett's lucky as hell to have you. Like I told Doc a few days ago—it's not science, sometimes you meet the right person, and it just hits you—"

"Oh, Marty," said Clara, gently, reaching to set her gloved fingers on his shoulder. "I'm _not_ in love with Emmett, and he's not courting me. That's what I mean to tell you. Please rest easy."

Marty frowned at her. "Begging your pardon," he said awkwardly, sounding like he'd never begged anyone's pardon in his entire life, "but I'm not blind. That epic rescue at the ravine—"

"Listen, I'll always be grateful he saved my life," Clara said, "but those kinds of relationships never last. They're all flash, fire, and infatuation. You can't build a house on that. I much prefer having my life to myself so that I can do as I please." When Marty's skepticism didn't abate, she smiled. "I certainly didn't come to Hill Valley looking for a husband."

Marty's startled expression faded to a distinct air of faintness; Clara tightened her grip on his shoulder, supporting him in case he should need it. "Wait a minute, you're telling me—" he began, and then stopped.

"I mean to tell you that you don't have to keep up your guard," said Clara, choosing her words carefully. "Not with me, and _certainly_ not with Emmett. In fact, I think he'd welcome a bit of frankness. It seems to me the two of you have been putting off discussing quite a number of things."

Marty's eyes widened, and he leaned into her touch almost without meaning to. "Clara, I—"

"You don't need to tell me a thing," she reassured him. "I'm concerned about Emmett, yes, but I'm even _more_ worried about you. He doesn't wear his emotions on his sleeve quite the same way."

Marty's expression shuttered, attempting to reclaim his nonchalant exterior, but Clara was fairly sure she could see a crack in the armor. "You don't have to worry about me."

Clara twisted her lips, tilting her head at him; a guilty school-child wasn't so different from what she was seeing right now. She set her other hand on his other shoulder, shaking him gently. "I'll worry about you till I can't remember _why_ I was even worried in the first place. You've both grown so dear to me in such a short time. Since you saved my life, the least I can do is lend my support."

Marty's demeanor cracked a little; his eyes, usually too bright and too wide to begin with, shimmered. "Don't take this the wrong way, but that's the _nicest_ thing anybody's said to me in a long time."

"You _silly_ creature," said Clara, folding him close before he could shy away, "come here!"

Marty stiffened at first when she pulled him into an embrace, but after a long moment, his body relaxed, and he was hugging her back, unsure where to put his hands. If this boy had ever been hugged by his mother, then it had been a _very_ long time since she had done so.

"Ah, _jeez_ ," he sighed, burying his face against her shoulder. "You're pretty great, you know that? If I _was_ in the market to marry Doc off, there's nobody I'd rather see him with."

Clara patted his shoulder, letting him hide for as long as he needed. "But you're not, are you?"

"No," Marty mumbled, drawing a gasping breath. "I don't know how you figured it out, but—"

Clara kissed the top of his head on impulse, hugging him tight. "You learn a _lot_ in my trade, Mister."

"This would be embarrassing if I didn't trust you so damn much," he said. "Uh— _sorry_."

"Ah," said Emmett, abashed, lingering in the open doorway, "am I interrupting something?"

"Not at all." Clara smiled, pulling away from Marty. "Marty was just about to explain to me what this model is for. We were celebrating how exciting it is that you've embarked on a new project."

Doc shrugged, grinning at both of them, gesturing expansively. "Ask whatever questions you'd like!"

Clara walked a full circuit of the model, struck by its accuracy in spite of how rough its overall construction. It wasn't to scale, either, but she could forgive that in light of the frenetic pace at which Emmett tended to work. There was a miniature locomotive and some kind of carriage labeled—

" _Time machine_?" she gasped, picking it up, regarding Emmett with wonder. "All this time and I never thought to ask to _see_ your time machine!" She couldn't keep her eyes from darting toward the tarp. "Am I to take it that's what all the fuss is about?" she asked, struck by a pang of sudden, profound sadness. "You're trying to find a way _home_ , aren't you?"

"Nothing gets past you, does it," Marty sighed, folding his arms across his chest. "Yeah. We are."

Clara glanced back and forth between the two of them; they looked for all the world like school-children who'd demolish a classroom all for the sake of finding out what was hidden under the floorboards. "But you've made a life here! Why would you—"

"Clara, we _can't_ stay," Emmett said firmly. "The longer we stay, the more we risk further changes to Hill Valley's collective timeline. We can't just think of ourselves anymore."

"And we've already done a lot of damage so far," Marty mumbled. "More than is acceptable."

"What, do you mean Mad Dog Tannen?" Clara asked. "Because if you're worried about that, I'm _sure_ the authorities would've eventually caught up to him in the original course of events."

Emmett and Marty traded uncomfortable looks. "Highly probable," Emmett said, "but no guarantee."

Clara closed her eyes, steeling her nerves. They were right; if she'd been in their shoes, she supposed that she'd have harbored some of the same concerns. All that was left was for her now was to assist them. "It's not as though you've killed someone during your time here," she said. When she didn't receive a response, she frowned at them. "Have you?"

Neither one of them spoke, but they both regarded her with somber, wide-eyed trepidation.

"Um, we did save someone's life," Marty offered. "And we're still not sure how that's going to…"

"Save someone's—" Clara froze. She understood now, or at least she was beginning to.

"Back in 1985, we know it as Clayton Ravine, not Shonash," Emmett said awkwardly.

"Oh, I _see_ ," Clara whispered, staring at her feet. Her feet that shouldn't even be there.

"Marty, go get a chair," Emmett ordered. "This is naturally going to come as a shock, we should—"

"No, no," Clara said faintly. "I'm fine. I just…need a moment. This is an awful lot to take in."

"Of course," Marty murmured. "Did you want some more tea?"

"No, thank you." Clara closed her eyes again, willing herself to remain calm. When she opened them, Emmett and Marty were looking at her worriedly. "Then—my very life alters the course of history?"

Marty shrugged. "We don't actually know. I mean, they'll have to call the ravine something else now, but other than that…" He gave her a hopeful look. "It'll probably just stay Shonash. Not so bad?"

Clara reached out and patted his cheek, still feeling a bit light-headed. "You're a sweet boy, Marty. That doesn't change the fact that my presence might have negative bearing on the future."

"Or it could be positive," Emmett replied. "You might inspire some student to do great things that they might not otherwise have done in the original timeline. They might become famous."

Clara smiled at Emmett, trying to show how much she appreciated his optimism. "Thank you, Emmett, but we should return to the matter at hand. What exactly _is_ your plan for returning home?"

Emmett and Marty traded another set of nervous glances before Emmett launched into a detailed explanation involving no fewer unfortunate elements than hijacking a train, an _astronomical_ amount of boiler pressure (which was liable to _destroy_ the engine), and relying on a railroad bridge that didn't exist in 1885. When Emmett was finished with his explanation, he watched her hopefully, as though presenting her with the solution to a difficult math problem she'd assigned.

Clara frowned at the track, holding out her hand for the train model, nodding to Marty in thanks when he passed it to her. She set it down on the track near the switch, and then frowned again. "Why are you stopping the train when you get it onto the spur?"

When she didn't receive an immediate answer, she looked up at the two of them to see they were both wearing identical, startled stares. It hadn't even occurred to them that this was a problem.

"Honestly, Emmett," she said impatiently. "There's a section of track here that you could be using to gain crucial speed, but instead, you're stopping the train completely. That's _suicide_."

"But we have to," Emmett objected. "We have to get the presto logs from the DeLorean and make sure the tire-rims are locked into place. That, and Marty has to get into the driver's seat so he can keep an eye on the temperature gauge. He can't do that beforehand if he's with me holding up the train."

"You lose the speed that you'll need for acceleration, if what you've told me about needing to hit eighty-eight miles per hour is accurate," Clara said. "Why would you take such a monumental risk? And also, _holding up the train_? Have you _quite_ taken leave of your senses?"

"We're not going to be able to obtain a locomotive otherwise," Emmett said in annoyance. "We don't have the kind of money to just _buy_ one. Not anymore," he added wistfully.

Marty was completely dumbfounded. "You had enough money to buy a _train_ , Doc?"

"In 1955, sure," said Emmett, shrugging in despair. "But you know where _that_ went."

"Even assuming your heist weren't the _stupidest_ idea I've ever heard," Clara said, getting back on-task, "that still doesn't solve the problem of losing speed when you stop at the spur."

"According to my calculations, from the silver mine to the end of the track, we'll have just enough rail to hit eighty-eight miles per hour. Once we've made the temporal leap, assuming all goes well, we'll coast across the completed bridge in 1985."

"How often has _all gone well_ during your travels in different time periods?" Clara asked pointedly, fairly sure she knew what the answer was. "Dazzle me with your tales of success."

Marty winced. "We've survived all right," he offered weakly. "We're good at thinking on our feet."

"It's wonderful to see that you have such _high_ standards," Clara said acidly. "If you two would only take the trouble to _plan_ for worst-case scenarios, I think you'd have an easier time of it."

"There are times when that's not possible," Marty said, his eyes haunted. Given that he'd been the one who'd traveled into the past for the first time after having seen Emmett get shot, Clara found herself regretting having been so sharp with them. "There are times you either make the jump, or you _die_."

Emmett stared at Marty, and it was absolutely _heartbreaking_ to see him hold back.

Clara nudged his shoulder firmly, and then nodded to Marty. _Go_ comfort _him, you unbelievable fool,_ she thought. _You're in the clear now. I've seen to that._

Emmett hesitated for a moment before another nudge from Clara spurred him forward. "Marty, I'm sorry," he said quietly, tugging Marty close, holding him fast. The strain showed in his every move.

Clara saw Marty tense in Emmett's arms, as if Emmett had slipped a dagger between his ribs, before he relaxed and let his head fall against Emmett's shoulder. He clung to Emmett as if he never intended to let go.

Over Marty's shoulder, Emmett gave her an apologetic look, but he tightened his hold all the same.

Clara shook her head, indicating that he should tend to Marty. "We'll speak again in a few days about this hare-brained scheme of yours, Emmett." _And if I find that you haven't used those days to your advantage, then you aren't the scientist I took you for_ or _the lover Marty deserves._

"Yes, Clara," said Emmett, contritely, as he rested his cheek against Marty's hair. "We will."

Clara nodded, satisfied. "Your key for the external lock, please," she said. "I'll see myself out."

Emmett looked startled for a moment before fishing around in his pocket and producing a worn, well-dented tin key, which he offered to her. "Thank you," he said. "I'm very much in your debt."

"You know exactly how you can repay me." Clara grinned at him, curtseying. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have my own errands to run about town. Have a _wonderful_ afternoon, gentlemen."

 

 

***

 

 

The turn of the key in the lock made Marty jump, unstringing the last of his frayed nerves.

"It's all right," Doc murmured, still holding him, and, oh, he _ached_ with it. "Marty."

"Sorry," Marty muttered, nosing his way just beneath Doc's collar before he lost the chance. "Everything sharp and sudden sounds kinda like a gunshot to me right now. No _thanks_."

Before, he'd just been doing his level best to focus on Doc's cheek pressed to the side of his head, savoring even _that_ contact before it inevitably came to an end. Now, he was keenly aware of Doc's arms wrapped tight around his shoulders, one of Doc's careful hands rubbing listless circles between his shoulder blades. Goddamn it, he'd had _enough_. He wanted Doc to hold him like it meant something; he wanted Doc to tell him to strip down and to _kiss_ him again and—

"All your _life_ you've been running," Doc whispered. "But you can stop now. I promise."

Marty pulled back from him, arms folded tight against his middle, giving him a searching look.

"Do you realize somebody we've known for less than a _week_ just handed our asses to us?"

Doc fixed him with one of those half-lidded, _ridiculous_ grins that said he knew it too well. "We might think twice about confiding in her from here on out. I'm not sure I like our chances."

Marty cleared his throat, his hands on his hips, narrowing his eyes. "So about this ass-handing…"

"It was thorough, I'll give her that," said Doc, shrugging. "She came at us from every possible angle."

Marty nodded appraisingly, tilting his head at Doc. "I wanna know if it's true, Doc. If we're really on the same page here, do you understand? I can't keep chasing you if you can't see this for what it is."

"I've said it once, but I'll said it again: _stop running_ ," Doc replied, reaching to brush his thumb along Marty's cheekbone and down to his jaw. "You put up a front because you feel like the world will think less of you if you're not some tough-guy 'round the clock. But that won't do at all, because _you_ get lost in the static. When that happens, _I'm_ lost without you. And I don't just mean where work's concerned, either." As if to demonstrate his seriousness, he pried Marty's arms free of where they'd been folded and took Marty's hands carefully in his own. He kissed one, and then the other, his expression imploring. "You're the only thing that's made sense to me in quite some time."

"This had better be all you, Doc," Marty said, willing the sting in his eyes to retreat just as he'd done when it had been Clara making him mist up. "Don't tell me she put you up to this just so I won't feel—"

Doc set a finger against Marty's lips, silencing him, and then pressed a kiss to Marty's forehead.

"Marty, Clara might've given me a nudge in the right direction, but this is as entirely _me_ as I can possibly get. Poor consolation prize though I am next to someone like Jennifer, will you have me?"

"Jesus Christ," Marty replied, all but launching himself at Doc. "You don't even have to _ask_."

Doc's startled laughter rang up through the rafters, thrilling them both. He caught Marty against himself and narrowly avoided stumbling backward into the refrigeration machine. Marty was glad he had enough presence of mind to backpedal a bit further, drawing Marty along by both hands. At worst, they'd fall onto the Chesterfield, and, even though that was cramped, Marty wasn't about to complain.

"When's the last time someone kissed you?" Marty asked, pressing up against Doc again as soon as he'd come to a halt. " _Please_ tell me you got kissed after 1955. I couldn't deal with it otherwise."

"No, as a matter of fact, I didn't," Doc told him, letting his hands drift to Marty's elbows. "Too busy with the time machine, remember? And my habit of keeping a canine companion on hand, of course. I've had an excellent relationship with that Polish Lowland sheepdog breeder for _decades_."

"That's heavy, Doc," Marty said, nuzzling the hollow of his throat again to see what would happen. "But you had to've kissed someone _before_ '55, right? Real heartbreaker like you?"

"Let's say that I had a...youthful indiscretion when I was around your age," Doc confessed.

"Youthful indiscretion?" replied Marty, teasingly, tracing Doc's collarbone. "That sounds racy."

"It probably isn't by your standards, but, back then, it was considered _highly_ inappropriate," said Doc, matter-of-factly, although he'd gone a bit breathless. "Still, it was…something to remember."

Marty whistled. "It must've been, given you still remember it after… _how_ many years?"

"Forty-seven," Doc supplied helpfully, running his fingers from Marty's elbows up to his biceps.

"Jeez!" Marty exclaimed, determined to make him crack. "And the last one was thirty years ago?"

"More or less," said Doc, shrugging again, leaning in. "Not including the one we shared last week."

"That can't be healthy," Marty lamented, undoing the top few buttons of Doc's shirt with unsteady fingers. "Maybe I should fix that," he suggested idly, trailing a fingertip down to Doc's heart.

Doc had gone slightly glaze-eyed, but his expression was both alert and adoring. "Sorry?"

Marty guided him over to sit on the Chesterfield, finding him satisfyingly compliant. Once Doc had settled on the sofa, courteously removing his boots, Marty straddled his lap without a second thought. Doc looked somewhat stunned, uncertain of where he ought to put his hands, so Marty placed them squarely on his hips, molding his fingers overtop of Doc's. He was glad he hadn't put on footwear.

"How about this," he proposed, sliding his arms around Doc's neck. "Instead of waiting around for you to explain the reasoning behind those kisses you gave, I'll just return every one of 'em."

Doc blinked at him hazily, stroking Marty's hipbones with reverence. "That's not necess—"

Marty set a finger against Doc's lips, an eye for an eye. "Kissing doesn't involve talking, Doc," he chided, leaning until their foreheads touched. "So here's 1955…" He pressed his lips against Doc's, the contact brief and light, but still firm. Doc's grasp on his hips tightened, fingertips digging in.

"You've got an unfair advantage, kid," Doc murmured as they drew apart, but he was smiling.

"And the one from last week, which is _kinda_ my favorite," Marty added, never mind the nervous flutter in his stomach, tilting his head for a better angle. He opened his mouth against Doc's, sliding his tongue along Doc's lower lip. That got him a full-on whimper. Rock and _roll_.

"I deserve the tease, I'll grant you," Doc sighed, catching Marty's lip briefly between his teeth.

Now, _that_ was an unfair advantage. Marty groaned and pressed into him; fuck, okay, that meant _business_. "And since I just ran out," he gasped against Doc's slightly stubble-rough cheek, "I'll just kiss you for all the times you nearly got yourself killed. That ought to cover—"

" _Marty_ ," murmured Doc, almost warningly. "We're not exactly in the best location for—"

"Here's for the Libyans," Marty said, laying one on him that was deep and sound enough to make his toes curl against Doc's calves. "Here's the courthouse roof, where you nearly fell off," he added, and, _mmm_ , no use denying it, Doc was basically grabbing his ass for this one. " _Twice_ , even," he accused, lightly pecking the corner of Doc's mouth before diving back in for seconds.

"How do you know about that?" Doc demanded. "About the time I almost fell off in '55, I mean?"

"I saw you dangling up there before you jury-rigged a cable to zip-line down to the street," Marty told him, taking a moment to catch his breath, savoring the tickle of Doc's hair against his nose. "Jeez, you're lucky you were wearing gloves. Your hands would've been cut to shreds."

"I see," Doc sighed, stroking Marty's hair in an effort to calm them both. "Wish I could've spared you the anxiety."

" _Hmph_ ," Marty muttered, ready for more action; he laid another kiss on Doc, this time open-mouthed and _wanting_. "This one's for you saving Clara's life, because I don't care how much clearance you say you had, you looked _damn_ close to the edge," he panted, thrilled to realize Doc's scrabbling fingers had begun to tug Marty's shirt free of his trousers. "Here's you nearly getting shot by Mad Dog Tannen at the festival on Saturday," he went on, unable to choke back a startled moan when Doc sat forward enough to momentarily grind their hips together. "And here's for that train-jacking plot to get us home, which, according to Clara, isn't even going to _work_."

They didn't resurface from the next bout for nearly a full minute, by which point, _Jesus_ , they were both trembling and breathing hard into each other's mouths and, well, _yeah_. Hard as hell, go figure. Marty squirmed in Doc's lap, desperate for more contact, more movement, _something_.

"That was...a lot of kisses," managed Doc, breathlessly. "Quite a few more than I deserve."

"Doc, I hate to break it to you, but you've got a really bad habit of nearly dying almost every time I catch up with you in the past," said Marty, at _least_ as irritated as he was turned on. "Let's work on improving those odds a little, huh?" He shifted his hips pointedly. "No more reckless shit!"

"I don't know about you," said Doc, soberly, "but this still feels reckless to me. Will it do for a start?"

Marty steeled his nerves, ducking his head to press a kiss against the side of Doc's neck. "How about you take me to bed, Doc? I _might_ just be persuaded to look the other way. Or call it even."

"That's a decent proposition," Doc said, scooting forward, and before Marty realized what it was he meant to do, he'd pressed his lips against Marty's ear. "Buckle up, Future Boy," he whispered.

"Buckle— _whoa_!" Marty clung to him more out of startlement than arousal, wrapping his legs around Doc's waist and flinging his arms around Doc's neck. "Jeez, Doc, how about _warning_ a guy all that blacksmithing's made you ridiculously strong, huh?"

"I thought it was just assumed, given the profession," Doc said mildly, adjusting his grip until, yeah, he was _definitely_ enjoying the feel of Marty's backside for all it was worth. "You mentioned bed?"

"Can't you pretend to be a little winded or something? I'm gonna get all breathless here in a second." Marty asked plaintively.

"Then I'd say this is going according to plan," said Doc, hitching Marty up with a satisfyingly labored grunt as he carried him several feet to the blanket-and-quilt-strewn mattress. "You're heavier than you look, you know that?" he asked, leaning forward a little before dropping Marty without warning.

" _Uff_!" Marty gasped, fighting the urge to giggle. He was pretty sure Doc might interpret laughter, _any_ laughter, the wrong way at this stage, so he quelled it. "Probably less than I was, though, given all the running around I've been doing," he said. "And the food out here, sheesh."

Doc sat down beside him on the mattress, reaching to stroke Marty's cheek, letting the touch trail down to linger along his jawline, his neck, at the hollow of his throat. "I almost don't believe I can…"

Marty wasn't sure what to do with that. He wasn't used to being something that _anybody_ wanted, let alone…like _that_. It was tempting to say something smart-assed, but when he opened his mouth, he blurted, "Do you know what you're doing? Because I sure as hell don't."

He must've looked fairly miserable at the admission, because Doc took his face in both hands and kissed him before he could manage any kind of apology. "Is that a fact?" he asked gently.

"I, _uh_. Never, actually," Marty admitted; his face was on _fire_. Christ, this was embarrassing. "Yeah," he sighed, screwing his eyes shut. "Lorraine had nothing to worry about."

"Never?" Doc asked, his tone teasing and fond, but there was something slightly disbelieving in it, too. "A handsome young man like you?" He stroked Marty's cheeks, leaning in again; Marty welcomed it.

" _Jeez_ , Doc," he muttered against Doc's mouth, pretty sure he could kiss Doc forever and not regret having failed to do anything more than that. "It always felt really big, y'know?"

"Would it reassure you at all to hear that I _have_ actually done this before?" Doc offered softly. "For certain definitions thereof," he added. "It wasn't the, ah, most extensive…"

"Your youthful indiscretion?" Marty prompted, curious. When Doc nodded, he sighed, wrapping his arms around Doc's neck. "God, yeah. I hope he—um, or, you know, _she_ —took care of you."

"He did," Doc admitted, "though I was left a little unsatisfied." In response to Marty's concerned look, he added, "He wouldn't allow reciprocation, but not out of cruelty. He thought he was protecting me."

Marty frowned, running his fingers unhurriedly through Doc's hair. "You were already, ah, _doing it_. What more could he possibly have protected you from?"

Doc gave him a wistful look. "A broken heart, possibly?" He shook his head, resting a finger against Marty's lips. "I don't know what his motivations were, and I can't ask him now. But I can tell you the advice that I was given: the moment you feel self-conscious, tell me to wait, tell me to stop, tell me to go faster, tell me to go harder, _anything_. Even if you have to close your eyes or hide your face against my neck, I just need to hear you tell me. Even if you have to whisper in my ear, it's all right."

Marty sucked in his breath, shivering. "Don't you dare stop on me, Doc. Don't you _dare_."

"I wouldn't dream of it, Marty," Doc murmured, giving him a soft, somber kiss that felt almost like an apology. "Now, there's a far more pertinent question here. Would you like me to undress you?"

Marty considered that for a long moment before he shook his head. "Doc, if I'm really doing this…losing my virginity, I mean, and to _you_ of all people, I don't want to just lay back and think of Hill Valley, y'know? I want to be a part of it." He started in on his shirt buttons, determined.

Doc looked startled for a moment before he chuckled, shaking his head. "There are times, Marty, when you astonish me." He watched as Marty peeled out of his shirt, eyes tracking appreciatively down Marty's chest to where Marty had already worked his fingers into the buttons of his fly.

"I could get used to you watching me take off my clothes," Marty admitted, tossing his shirt on the floor, and then wriggled out of his unbuttoned trousers as fast as he could. "You seemed to enjoy it the other day, too, but I could tell you felt guilty as hell about it. You don't have to feel like that now."

"I can't get anything past you, can I?" Doc asked, his eyes meeting Marty's before trailing down his chest, as if mapping where to place his hands. "I wouldn't have dreamed—you were _hurt_ —"

"Hey, what did I say just now about feeling guilty?" Marty asked, chiding him gently. "I want you to _touch_ me." He drew an anxious breath, lowering his voice just enough. " _Everywhere_."

Doc leaned in, kissing him with fierce intent, and it figured that Doc was one hell of a romantic, because the first touch Marty got was a hand cupping his jaw, Doc's thumb brushing his cheek. " _You're_ the sight for sore eyes, you know that?" Doc whispered, tugging unexpectedly at the waistband of Marty's underwear with his free hand. "What should I do? Finish undressing you, or see to myself?"

"Actually, that's a great idea," Marty muttered, tugging at Doc's waistband in turn. "Take off your clothes." He sat back, leaning on his elbows, and watched; Doc had never scrambled to any task faster in his _life_ , at least not that Marty had seen, and it was well worth the price of admission.

"I don't hold a candle, of course," Doc admitted, changing things up a bit, because where Marty's trousers had been the last thing to go, Doc's in this case were the _first_. "It's been _years_ since I've looked anything like you do, and, frankly, I doubt I _ever_ looked like you to begin with."

Marty watched with increasingly wide eyes as Doc discarded his shirt next and started in on the buttons of his long-johns. Doc couldn't hide anything even though the underwear went all the way to his wrists and ankles; good grief, the guy had _lost weight_ since Marty had last seen him, but not to the point he wasn't still admirably sturdy. Doc stared at some point past Marty's shoulder, against the pillow or the headboard, pushing the offending garment down to his waist, and _then_ —

"You're killing me here, you realize," Marty said, reaching for Doc as he stripped fully and climbed onto the mattress with a faint trace of doubt in his dark eyes. "God, Doc, get _over_ here and—"

"Gladly," Doc said, pressing Marty back against the pillows, sighing as he settled them skin to skin.

Marty's first thought wasn't really a thought; it was more of a jolt that caused him to lock onto whatever he could reach with fierce, _freftul_ abandon. Doc was warm and heavy against him and he was _sure_ the gasp he tried to muffle against Doc's collarbone was louder than he'd intended for it to be. "Oh _Jesus_ ," he whimpered, pressing at Doc's shoulders. "Doc, you've gotta... _please_..."

" _Shhh_ ," Doc whispered, running his fingers through Marty's hair. He nudged Marty's thighs apart with one of his own, settling closer. "How's that?" he asked. "Marty, if you don't tell me, I can't—"

Marty let out a high-pitched cry, hips twisting against the warm pressure of Doc's thigh against him. Fuck, _fuck_ , Jesus _Christ_ , he hadn't meant to lose it so fast, hadn't meant to come sobbing and shaking under Doc before he could even suggest anything _useful_.

"It's all right," Doc murmured, hitching him in tight, one hand firm at the small of Marty's back.

Marty buried his face in the crook of Doc's neck, his breath coming in ragged gasps. Not only had he completely fucked this up, but they were both already a mess. "I..." _Fuck_ , he thought again.

"Marty?" Doc murmured against Marty's ear, pressing a kiss just beneath the lobe. "Are you all right?"

"Yeah..." Marty opened his eyes, his pulse slowing. "Yeah, Doc. I'm _great_. Honest. I just..." He hated himself for mumbling. "I usually last longer than this. When I'm, uh. Seeing to myself."

Doc hummed. "Well..." he said slowly, dropping a kiss to Marty's shoulder. "Let's look at the circumstances, shall we?" He traced Marty's bicep with one finger. "You're in bed with another person for the very first time, and that kind of sustained physical contact when we've been this tense for so many days on end is bound to feel—" Doc dropped a kiss to the edge of Marty's ear before—holy _shit_ , Marty knew Doc had been turned on, but to _feel_ it... " _Overwhelming_ ," Doc moaned, shuddering against him.

"Hey, are _you_ all right?" Marty murmured, tentatively nuzzling Doc's cheek. "Doc?"

"Me?" Doc ventured, sounding roughly like he'd been stunned by a blow to the head.

Marty shifted under him, rolling his hips against Doc encouragingly. "Yeah, you."

Doc's hum was low, rich, and utterly _content_ now that they'd settled into each other. Leaning down until his lips brushed against Marty's ear, he murmured, "The refractory period for an eighteen-year-old male is typically about fifteen minutes."

Marty bit his lip, his dick giving a valiant twitch in response. He tried not to think about how his voice sounded when he said, "Jeez, Doc, gimme a minute before you do that? I can't _quite_...um."

" _Hmmm_?" Doc sounded amused and even somewhat surprised. "Do what?" he asked.

Marty squeezed his eyes shut, fighting off sheer embarrassment. " _Uh_ , you know. Whisper in my ear like that," he half-mumbled. "I can't get it up again so soon."

There was a brief pause before Doc said apologetically, "Ah. I'll refrain from doing so." There was even a kiss to seal the promise, so that was all right. And then Marty's eyes snapped shut when Doc rolled his hips against Marty's in slow, indulgent thrusts. Damn, if he could've just _held on_.

Marty wondered for a second if he should be offended, but huffed and wound his arms tighter around Doc's neck, pressing a kiss of his own against Doc's cheek. "Thanks," he said. "Much appreciated."

Doc hummed again before pulling back to look Marty in the eye. "Now," he began, his tone a mix of his usual I'm-explaining-something-in-far-too-many-syllables manner and something darker, _smoother_ , with just a little more rasp than usual. "As I was saying..."

It took Marty a second to remember what Doc had actually been talking about. "Refractory period. Fifteen minutes. Got it," he said. "But what about you?"

"Mine is measured in hours," he explained, the movements of his hips maddeningly slow against Marty's. "Typically twenty-four hour periods, in fact."

Marty blinked. "But what about those rejuvenation treatments you had?" He was tempted to touch Doc's back and ribs, but he didn't feel like trying to juggle their limbs. Instead, he idly played with Doc's hair.

Doc's eyes slid shut, his expression blissful. "They're not a magic bullet, Marty," he said, losing some of the sexy edge to his voice. "I'm still in my sixties, and biological processes slow down over time." He opened his eyes long enough to indulge in a slow kiss, nibbling lightly on Marty's lower lip.

When they surfaced, Marty took a few shaky breaths. "So…if you come now, then the next time you can do it will be that much sooner?" he asked hopefully.

Doc paused mid-thrust, blinking down at Marty in distinct, yet besotted annoyance. The startled huff of laughter that followed was something Marty was proud to take credit for.

"See, I've got good ideas sometimes." Marty grinned, giving Doc's backside a teasing pinch.

Doc gave him a half-hearted glare. "You have good ideas _often_ , Marty." He leaned down for a quick kiss before adding, "It's one of the things I love about you."

Marty had to cover his embarrassed pleasure at how casually Doc had said it by running his hands over Doc's shoulders. "So…?" he asked, hopeful and starting to feel more than a little turned on. He upped the ante by wrapping his arms around Doc's sides, experimentally skimming his nails down Doc's spine. "How about you?"

Doc shivered, letting out something _almost_ like a growl before nuzzling Marty's neck. "I reserve the right to continue seeing to you even after I've had my turn, so to speak," he said, that edge returning to his voice. He paused for a moment before adding, "If you want me to, that is."

Marty couldn't suppress a shiver, because holy _shit_ , that sounded amazing. At this rate, his brain was going to _liquefy_ under all the attention Doc was paying him. "You're the doc, Doc."

"Feels like you're back up to speed again," Doc observed, punctuating his words with a particularly tight thrust. "I lament the state in which we'll leave the sheets, _however_..."

Marty sighed, tipping his chin up, basking in the depth and thoroughness of Doc's kiss. Yeah, he was hard again all right, and, _God_ , Doc must really be feeling the strain. Thinking back to the Chesterfield for inspiration, Marty let his toes creep up Doc's calves.

Doc paused for a moment, his eyes narrowing. "Wait a minute," he said, shifting slightly.

Marty stopped moving. "No?" he asked, his fingers stilling against Doc's shoulder blades.

"No, here." Doc shook his head, sounding much like his usual self when he was getting an idea for some invention or another. "I have an idea. Let me know if I'm forcing you to stretch too far."

"Stretch?" echoed Marty, before Doc's hips carefully lifted from his own. He groaned before he could help it. "Wait, I _liked_ that part." Doc hard against him, all warm skin and _weight_ —

Doc grinned. "Then you might like _this_ even better." He knelt back and carefully eased his arms under Marty's calves, going so slowly Marty wasn't sure whether Doc was trying to ease his anxiety or tease him like crazy. Pretty soon, Marty's legs were bent back further and further until his knees were open and close to his chest.

Doc paused, admiring the view. "If I didn't think you would come too quickly," he said, "I'd be very, _very_ tempted to blow you right now."

The mental image of Doc's lips wrapped around him was almost too much. Marty squeezed his eyes shut. " _Doc_ —"

The sensation of Doc's weight settling on top of him once more was grounding, _calming_. Marty steeled himself, sucking a breath in through his nostrils, concentrating on what Doc wanted to try. If Doc had touched him just then, he'd probably have been a goner.

"A versatile imagination is an asset," Doc murmured with approval. "Although I didn't realize that you would be so sensitive," he said, apologetic. "I might have to adjust my calculations."

" _Adjust_...?" Marty said weakly, panting hard. "Doc, you've gotta _hurry_."

Without warning, Doc lifted up just enough to give them both a couple of light, teasing strokes before settling in again, and that, _that_ was enough to set Marty's pulse pounding. He shivered, restless beneath the new pace that Doc had begun to set, finding that he couldn't move _quite_ as much as he wanted because Doc was pinning him _and_ had his arms hooked under Marty's knees.

The effect was nothing short of devastating, because he was close again, closer, _so close_ —

"Oh," Doc whispered, the word taut, too choked, " _oh_ ," and Marty knew he'd won this round.

" _Yeah_ ," he sighed, sprawling bonelessly with pleasure as it washed over him, trying to concentrate on the fact that he and Doc were coming _at the same time_. "That was— _ahhh_ , fuck—a _really_ good—"

" _Shhh_ ," Doc said, one elbow keeping him from crushing Marty completely while he ran the fingers of his other hand tenderly through the hair at Marty's nape. He dotted kisses across Marty's face, tracing his cheekbones and down his nose, and then along his eyebrows until Marty got impatient and dragged him into a scorching, _satisfied_ kiss. "Yes, it _was_ a good idea."

Marty yawned, covering his mouth in shame. " _Ugh_ , sorry. It's no commentary on your performance, _trust_ me. We're lucky I even got through this; I'm so tired I can't _think_..."

"Then sleep," Doc murmured, peeling away from him; Marty abhorred the loss of contact, but he knew that they'd be in trouble if one of them didn't see to clean-up. "I'll make this quick."

"I'm not gonna sleep without _you_ , genius," Marty sighed, watching Doc come back with one of the rags from the other night, thankfully now _clean_. He stretched and yawned while Doc scrubbed at them both in turn, tugging at Doc's wrist when it seemed he'd got all he could hope to scrub away for the time being. "Toss it on the floor, _sheesh_ ," Marty sighed, reaching for him. "Clara told us to have a wonderful afternoon. You're not gonna disobey her, are you?"

Doc reached for the covers, tugging them up as thoroughly as he could given that Marty had already snuggled up against him in a lazy sprawl. "I wouldn't dream of doing that, either," he agreed.

" _Great_ ," Marty sighed, closing his eyes. "And yeah, Doc. I love everything about you, too."


	5. 1985 - 1986

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As a librarian, I don't advocate theft of library materials, but given the state of technology in 1985, as well as the unofficial "rules" for the BTTF universe, _I'll let Mr. McFly slide_. If he can return a suitable undamaged duplicate, it will be All Good. _—leaper182_
> 
> As a trained palaeographer who has frequently handled delicate medieval charters, letters, and manuscripts, I don't approve in general terms, either. But sometimes you've gotta do what you've gotta do. _—irisbleufic_

**Sunday, December 20, 1885 / Sunday, October 27, 1985**

Out on the scrubby plain, raw wind buffeted their garments without mercy. Doc tugged down the brim of his hat and pulled his coat tighter about himself, surveying the result of their last several months' blood, sweat, and tears. Beside him, Marty was silent and curiously withdrawn; Doc supposed that it was only natural he should feel anxious about the journey they were going to undertake. In his own fashion, he'd also come to regard the Hill Valley of 1885 as _home_. He took Marty's hand.

"We'll come back someday," Doc reassured him, squeezing. "I know we will. Call it a hunch."

"You had _better_ , Mister," said Clara, chidingly. "At least you won't experience that much dissonance regarding what day of the week you're getting back," she added, proudly patting the side of her highly specialized locomotive. "Sunday to Sunday. It's a sensible leap."

"Pardon me for saying so, ma'am," said Marty, with fond, feigned propriety, "but I can't believe we helped you build a fucking _time train_ with parts salvaged almost entirely from _scrap_." He sighed and removed his hat, running one hand through his hair. "Just a bit of advice, for what it's worth: everywhere we went, we screwed stuff up whether we meant to or not. Be _careful_."

Clara beamed at him, and Doc couldn't help but experience a swell of pride. "Thank you for that unflagging vote of confidence," she said, narrowing her eyes a little. "Don't you worry about me, young man. Forgive me for speaking so plainly, but you kept making a mess of things because you're _boys_. Me, now, I have no intention of traveling in the past. I'd much rather see what's ahead."

"Once you've pushed us to the edge of the tracks, we'll vanish, instantaneously arriving in 1985. You and your train will vanish, too, depending on what settings you input. I can't help thinking your first stop should be the year 2015, or maybe some point beyond," said Doc, before Marty had the chance to get his dander up about Clara's remarks. "Once you're there, look into a Mr. Fusion for your energy source and get hover-conversion done on the train. That way, you won't be restricted by tracks _or_ by roads, and you won't risk getting stranded somewhere like we did."

Clara nodded, as if she found that advice more pertinent than Marty's. "Now, you listen to me _closely_ , Emmett," she said, reaching for his hand, stepping toward him in her warm, thoroughly-starched traveling clothes. "Should you ever need to contact me, send a message via Western Union to the precise time and location we've discussed. I'll make frequent stop-offs there."

"Should we be worried exactly how much red-eye it's taken to fuel this thing?" Marty asked, glancing up at the train's bold side-emblazonment of _C.E. CLAYTON_. Doc could tell from the set of his jaw that something was wrong; he had grown visibly upset. "Maybe look into conversion over to a safer combustion source for backing your steam," he continued. "You know, in the future."

"I plan on learning absolutely everything I can," Clara reassured him. "Marty, I promise."

"Can't stand it," Marty sighed, hugging her fiercely from side-on. "I'm gonna miss you like _crazy_."

Clara patted his arm with her right hand even as she continued to squeeze Doc's with her left. "We'll be just fine," she said resolutely, "and of _course_ I'll miss you both. More than I can even say."

"I guess Mayor Hubert won't be too pleased about having to recruit a new teacher," Marty mumbled against Clara's shoulder. "Everybody liked you, and I don't blame 'em. You were better than any teacher _I_ ever had."

Doc let go of Clara's hand, reaching to carefully extract Marty from where he'd latched onto her. "This town will get on whether any of us are in it or not," he said. "Besides, your ancestors are here. Maggie and Seamus both have good heads on their shoulders, and that kid of theirs will go far."

"I'm not ready for this," said Marty, letting Doc hold him, his gaze fixed on Clara. "I'm _really_ not. What if something goes wrong and we end up in each other's intended destinations, or—"

"Then we think on our feet just like we always have," Doc reassured him, "and we react accordingly."

"Emmett," Clara said, fixing him with a look that was equal parts joy and trepidation. "Good luck."

Doc managed to gather her into his embrace without letting go of Marty, at which point it turned into the three of them clinging to each other for what felt like a very long time. Clara broke away first, straightening her clothes; as no-nonsense as ever, she set her hand on the locomotive's railing and mounted the steps, peering down at them with expectant determination.

"I know, I know," said Doc, resigned, gracing her with a salute. "We'd better get in the car."

The trip was, in a word, _exhilarating_. Doc defaulted to something other than _spectacular_ this time because he figured Marty might appreciate it; however, judging from the vise-grip in which he had Doc's hand trapped against the now-irrelevant temperature gauge during the entirety of their train-propelled acceleration up to eighty-eight miles per hour. Doc hoped that Clara would be all right. He hoped that she'd find reception as warm as he had on arrival in the future; he _hoped_ —

There was a blinding flash of blue-white light through the windshield, and then silence punctuated only by the unhurried, repetitive _ding_ of a railway signal as they blinked into the afternoon sun.

"Jesus, Doc," Marty breathed, turning to blink at him in disbelief. "I think we might actually be back."

Doc nodded tentatively, squeezing Marty's hand in return. "I think you may be right, Future Boy."

And it was _then_ he realized that the railway signal hadn't stopped clanging, and that it hadn't been their arrival after all that had triggered it. He took a hesitant breath and glanced in his side mirror.

"Doc," Marty said, urgently shaking his arm, apparently having caught on. "Doc, I _think_ —"

"Open your door and _get out of the car_!" Doc shouted, reaching for his door-handle, by now on autopilot. He gave it a tug and then kicked the door as hard as he could, launching himself forward—

He _thought_ he could hear Marty's screams, most of them various mangled permutations of Doc's name. He hit the ground hard with his shoulder and rolled, painfully, until he felt scrub and dust instead of trackside gravel. The railway signal rang in his ears even after the thunderous collision was through. The DeLorean would be a total loss, that much was a given, but _Marty_ —

They collided with each other halfway, fell in a gasping tangle just to the side of the tracks on which Marty had landed. Doc squeezed him, relieved, and then let his hands move from Marty's shoulders down to his hips in as much of an impromptu assessment as he could manage. No broken bones, or at least he didn't _think_ so, but they'd sure as hell both be bruised to an extensive degree.

"Hey, Doc," said Marty, weakly, his voice a wavering mess. "Thanks for the warning back there."

"Don't mention it," Doc managed, finding that he'd instinctively touched his lips to the corner of Marty's mouth. He pressed them there briefly, as much of a kiss as they could afford under the circumstances. He didn't think they had an audience, but he didn't want to take the chance.

Marty rendered his caution a moot point. He grabbed Doc and yanked him down, his lips parting the instant Doc's covered his. The kiss tasted like desperation, like _victory_ , and Marty's fists were shaking so badly in his duster that Doc idly wondered if Marty would manage to tear the cloth.

Doc concentrated, accepting Marty's desperation, returning it as soothing reassurance.

Moments later, Marty hummed into the kiss before pulling away. "Sorry," he whispered, forcing himself to let go. "You're hot in that coat, you know that, Doc?"

"Not really," Doc replied, the non sequitur drawing his attention to the cool air against their skin. "In addition to avoiding synthetics, I tend to favor lighter materials so that I don't overheat." He eyed his coat. "As a result, they tend to be much less stiff than the usual coats of the same design."

"What about all that crap you were wearing in 2015?" Marty asked, rolling away from him, and got unsteadily to his feet. He offered Doc a hand, smiling wryly. "You can't tell me that stuff was natural."

"I assure you that it _was_ , or there's no way I could've worn it," said Doc, letting Marty help him up, "and if you want me to prove it to you, we still have those clothes balled up somewhere—"

They both turned and regarded the DeLorean's wreckage, a kaleidoscope of glass and twisted metal and dozens of disparate parts. It was a sobering thing to set eyes on; Doc walked over to what he recognized instantly as what was left of the flux capacitor, suppressing a sense of dread. Marty followed him.

"All those years of work," Doc murmured, regarding the remnant. "My family's money, _gone_."

Marty kicked the display with the toe of his boot, somberly watching the numbers flicker and vanish. "You didn't do it in vain, though," he said. "Look at all the neat stuff we learned in the process. Did you ever find out the answer to that question, Doc?"

"Which one?" Doc said, balefully regarding the rest of the wreckage. "There were so many."

Marty joined him, making an abortive movement to reach for Doc's hand. " _Why_?"

Doc frowned, not understanding until he remembered standing on the street in 2015 and ranting at Marty about why he'd invented the time machine. Answering the age-old question of human existence.

"I think I have an inkling now," Doc said, reaching for Marty's hand, actually _taking_ it.

"Yeah?" Marty asked, squeezing his hand, and then laced his fingers with Doc's without hesitation.

Doc smiled, grieved that the DeLorean was gone, but somehow unable to regret anything. "Yeah."

"Let's get outta here, Doc," Marty said, tugging at him, "before somebody reports us to the police."

 

 

***

 

 

As aggravating a circumstance as it was, Doc could understand why Marty was taking his time in the shower. Neither one of them had experienced the luxury of hot water in _months_ ; in Doc's case, it had been nearly a year. Impatient with Einstein's over-excited attention, Doc fetched him a treat (even though he'd just been fed, the brat) and snuck into bathroom while the dog was distracted.

"It's just me," Doc said, raising his voice so that Marty would hear him. "Mind if I join you?"

"I'd sure as hell hope so, Doc," said Marty, pushing back the curtain. He let his eyes sweep over Doc while he got undressed, grimacing a little at the visible traces of grime on his wrists and neck. "Yeah, okay, that's disgusting, but we can fix it," he added once Doc had stripped down, pulling him inside.

"You were in no better shape before you stepped in there," Doc pointed out, sighing he stepped under the spray, the hot water pounding his chest as Marty got right to work on his back with the soapy washcloth. " _Ah_. As much as I'd grown fond of 1885…"

"I couldn't have lived without hot water, Doc," Marty insisted vehemently, working his way down to the small of Doc's back with even circular strokes. "Well, I could have if I'd _had_ to, but I'd have been holding out hope that you'd have invented indoor plumbing well ahead of schedule."

"I'm a scientist, Marty, not a miracle worker," Doc said, closing his eyes, bracing himself against the wall to stay upright. "Besides, don't be ridiculous: indoor plumbing has been around for centuries. The fact that the United States didn't have it as the standard in every home until the 1940s was appalling."

"Did _your_ house have it in the '40s?" asked Marty, curious as he worked. "Or the '30s?"

"Yes," Doc admitted, finding Marty's touch distracting. "We could afford it in the '20s, even."

"You were _born_ in 1920," Marty reminded him. "That's some good memory you've got."

Doc tugged the washcloth out of Marty's hand; the fact he was reaching around to scrub Doc's belly now was something of an ill-disguised ruse. Marty took the cue for what it was, wrapping one careful hand around Doc's erection. "I don't want to talk about the past," Doc sighed. "I'm tired of it."

"Then how about we focus on the present?" Marty asked, slicking his free hand with soap from the caddy. He made a two-handed job of it, alternating strokes with soothing, slippery ease. "Is that okay?"

"More than," Doc sighed, closing his eyes, content to let Marty continue what he was doing until Doc could hear _his_ breath beginning to hitch, too. He eased Marty's hands off-task, turning to face him, the spray rinsing his back. "Come here," he murmured, backing Marty up against the far wall.

"I'm _already_ here," Marty gasped as Doc took him in hand. "C'mon, no fair. I started—"

" _Shhh_ ," Doc said, kissing him quiet, and then pressed kiss to the side of Marty's neck before getting down on his knees so he could concentrate on the task at hand. Marty responded beautifully to manual stimulation, but, under the circumstances, Doc's mouth probably wouldn't go amiss.

"Oh _God_ ," Marty groaned, pressing his hips back against the wall. "I'm not gonna—"

"The point most _certainly_ isn't for you to last," Doc said, pulling off him just long enough to speak. He adjusted his grip, twisting gently as he let his tongue dip into Marty's slit. Above him, Marty choked, and Doc wondered why on earth he should hold back now. "Marty, it's all right."

Marty drew several deep, shuddering breaths, as if trying to steady himself. "But—"

Ah, that explained it. Doc withdrew with a lingering lick, raising an eyebrow at him. "My neighbors have been hearing noises for _years_ , and I haven't had the cops called on me yet." He stroked Marty a few times, twisting thoroughly around the head. "I want to _hear_ you."

Apparently hearing _Doc_ was all the permission that Marty had needed. His cries, soft at first, increased with each added stimulus. When Doc took Marty back in his mouth, that was the end of it.

"Jesus _Christ_!" Marty shouted, a merciless echo in the enclosed space. " _Doc_! Fuck, _I_ —"

Doc retrieved the washcloth from where it had fallen next to Marty's foot, using it to sponge at what had gotten on his chin. It made little difference now, the mess, because the shower was doing an excellent job of clearing it as quickly as it had appeared. Doc licked his lips and glanced up at Marty, whose cheeks were flushed now from more than just steam. He got to his feet, holding onto Marty for balance, and wasn't at all shocked when one of Marty's hands found its way back to his hard-on.

"I still think you cheated," Marty insisted, giving Doc a firm stroke. "Turning the tables like that."

"I built a time machine when all the laws of physics said it was impossible. I'm used to cheating," said Doc, wryly, but his mind was backsliding fast. " _Marty_ ," he sighed. "This is…"

"If you say it's a bad idea, so help me _God_ ," Marty muttered, working Doc harder. "You just had me screaming fit to bring down the house, so don't you dare think you're gonna get off that easy." He reconsidered his phrasing, letting go of Doc so he could use both hands to position Doc's against the wall on either side of his head. "Well, what do I know. Maybe you _are_." He slid down till he was crouching in front of Doc, the wall at his back. "What did you say to me, huh? Buckle up?"

Doc squeezed his eyes shut. Not only was Marty giving him orders in that tone _intensely_ arousing, but he was also remembering another night, long ago, when Marty had told him to do that very thing. Back then, it had been about intensifying their kisses well past innocence, but the way Marty's tongue felt against his skin, that kiss from long ago had gone outright _incendiary_.

Doc cried out, slamming one fist against the tiled wall. Marty seemed to take that as indication that he should up the ante, so he did the same thing with his tongue that Doc had done to _him_ only moments before. It was hardly the first time they'd had their mouths on each other, what with those precious months they'd had to themselves in 1885, but the sheer urgency of it was _stunning_.

"God, _Marty_ ," Doc breathed, his head bowed, his attention on the lips and tongue and _heat_ surrounding him. "That feels  _amazing_. I can't even tell you..." _How long I've dreamed of this, how long I've wanted you back, how long I've imagined seeing your face._ When Marty hummed against him, Doc gritted his teeth and cut his internal monologue short. "Wait, _wait_ , don't do that just yet," he whispered, not sure if the spray from the shower was drowning him out. "Go a little slower—"

Marty paused for a moment, considering this, before deftly swirling his tongue. "Like that?"

The warm breath against his over-sensitized flesh made Doc gasp and press his hands harder against the tiles. " _Yes_ —"

Marty's tongue returned, deft and merciless, one hand working the rest of Doc's length while the other cupped his balls. When Marty made a questioning hum against him, Doc involuntarily opened his eyes. Marty's questioning, _brilliant_ blue gaze was fixed on him, mischievous, wanting to know if he was doing it right. Marty's tongue worked even faster in the moment their eyes met, daring him.

"Stop," Doc gasped, reaching down to touch Marty's cheek, easing him back with fingers curled carefully at the curve of Marty's jaw. He almost didn't manage to hold off, but he caught sight of Marty's shocked expression just as his orgasm hit. He hated himself for closing his eyes, but the sound of Marty's breath told him all he needed to know about Marty's reaction.

"Jeez, Doc," he managed after a few seconds, sounding proud. "Good thing we're in the shower. Holy _shit_." Doc opened his eyes in time to see Marty mop at his chest with the washcloth and then turn his attention on Doc's belly and thighs. "I'm gonna ask you to do that more often."

"Make a complete mess of you?" Doc asked, trying to catch his breath. _If only you knew_.

" _Yeah_ ," Marty said, letting Doc help him to his feet, "as a matter of fact. That was hot."

"We'd better hurry," Doc sighed, reaching for the shampoo. "This hot water's gone lukewarm."

They got out of the shower exactly an hour and a half after Marty had gone in. Doc found his contemporary clothes a welcome change from too many buttons and layers, and he was grateful that Marty's occasional habit of staying over had always resulted in him keeping extra clothes in Doc's bottom drawer. Damp, but dressed, they sat down on the edge of the mattress, leaning into each other.

"So I guess maybe we have a problem on our hands," Marty said hesitantly, studying his hand cradled between both of Doc's. "I'm gonna want to be with you way more often than my folks will consider normal. If I start spending the night more often than I already do, they're gonna know something's up."

"As much as I'm going to miss having you in my bed every night, I think we'll need to restrict ourselves to one night per weekend, or perhaps every other," said Doc, his mind racing, stroking Marty's hand to keep him calm. "One night per weekend might not be unreasonable, but if _anyone_ catches wind—" _Married in all but law and name_ , he thought, _and I can't even find a way to keep you by my side_.

Marty shuddered against him. "Yeah," he said, the word heavy with meaning. "I don't think I could wait two weeks before seeing you again."

"We'll be able to see each other, of course," Doc said. "We just can't be as casually intimate as we've been these past few months."

"I _know_ that, Doc," Marty said, sounding frustrated, running his free hand through his hair. "But, hell, waiting to see you is gonna drive me nuts. I can still sneak out on the odd week-night just like I used to? As long as I make it home before dawn, nobody will know the difference."

"We would need to be absolutely _scrupulous_ about you getting back home," said Doc, severely. "One morning of you not turning up for breakfast is all it would take, Marty. We'd be done for."

Marty's jaw tightened as he nodded. "I _know_ how high the stakes are, okay? I've only been ma— _ah_ , in a stable, committed relationship with you for a few months now. I'm not about to jeopardize what we've got."

 _Yes, and I'd put a ring on your finger in a heartbeat_ , Doc thought, Marty's stumble _far_ from having gone unnoticed. "As long as you understand, then I'd say we've reached an agreement."

"I have another problem, too," Marty sighed, averting his gaze. "There was this, uh, trip to the lake Jennifer and I were supposed to take last night. It didn't happen, obviously, given she was out cold on her porch swing and I wasn't even _here_ —and, you know, thank _God_ —but it doesn't change the fact I've gotta deal with my shit. She thinks we're still dating."

"Before you traveled to 1955, you _were_ ," Doc pointed out gently. "I remember you telling me about the trip. I also recall a heart-to-heart that we had about not feeling like you needed to rush things just because the two of you were concerned about the lack of physical intimacy in your relationship."

"I guess what I'm trying to say is," Marty sighed, squeezing Doc's hand, "I've gotta go. She'll probably wanna see me because it's Sunday afternoon, you know? I'll get home, and she'll have called. I should just go straight to her place, come to think of it. Nobody in my family has come here and busted down the door looking for me, so I'm gonna assume they think I'm still at the lake."

Doc nodded, sighing. "That's wise, Marty. You _should_ get going. I've got a lot of clean-up to attend to around here; Einstein's gotten into some things in our absence and left a few messes."

Marty stood up, but he didn't let go of Doc's hand. He used the connection to wheel around in front of Doc, stepping in close, his pensive eyes drifting half-closed when Doc slid both arms around his waist. "I'm gonna miss you so much tonight, I want you to know that," Marty said, bending to kiss him.

"The sentiment's returned," Doc murmured against Marty's mouth. "Get out of here, Future Boy."

"Love ya, Doc," Marty replied, kissing Doc's forehead before pulling away. "You know that, right?"

"Like a universal constant," Doc sighed, shooing him fondly. "You know I love _you_ , too."

 

 

**Monday, October 28, 1985**

Doc startled awake to the sound of a key in his front door. Before he'd had time to throw off the covers and get out of bed, Marty was already standing inside and fending off an enthusiastic Einstein with the door still open behind him. "Doc?" he asked, keeping his voice down. "Are you awake?"

"Marty," Doc responded, rubbing his right eye and trying to wake up faster, "what are you _doing_ here? Did something happen?"

"What?" Marty sounded genuinely surprised. The ambient light in the room was cut drastically when he closed the door behind him and locked it. "No, everything's fine— _down_ , Einstein—okay, maybe it's not _fine_ , but I'm okay? Why?"

Doc got up, moving over to Marty and turning on the light. "Because I thought we said we were going to wait for the weekend."

Marty shrugged, staring at the floor, immediately warming to him. "I know, but—"

"Marty," Doc said sternly. "Monday isn't part of the weekend. And we had yesterday—"

"I needed to _see_ you," Marty snapped, throwing himself into Doc's arms, hugging him tightly. "I missed you. And I'm _really_ stressed out by all the changes, Doc. It's heavy."

Doc sighed, hugging him back just as firmly, pressing a kiss to his hair. "I know. I've missed you too. Last night was...more difficult than I'd anticipated."

"That's a hell of an understatement," Marty muttered into his shoulder. "I had another one of those fucking _awful_ dreams, and you weren't around to help me get back to sleep."

Doc closed his eyes. Ever since the night of the Hill Valley Festival, Marty had been struggling with intense nightmares; some permutations were more unbearable than others. When the dream had been that Marty had shot Mad Dog and watched as he bled out, Doc had gotten Marty back to sleep by holding him close and speaking to him nonstop. But when it had been that Doc had gotten shot and died in Marty's arms, there'd been nothing to do but to hold Marty while he cried himself to exhaustion.

"I'm so sorry, Marty," Doc murmured, meaning every word. "I wish I could have been there."

Marty clung to him. "I nearly woke up the whole house. Mom came in and fussed over me."

"Then I'm glad _someone_ was there for you," Doc said quietly. "And I realize that you must be under immense strain from whatever conversation you ended up having with Jennifer, too." He tugged Marty toward the bed, directing him to drop his vest and get out of his vaguely damp clothes. Doc wondered briefly if it was sprinkling outside; regardless, Marty did as he was told without much fuss and, in just t-shirt and underwear now, gladly crawled into bed when Doc threw back the covers. When Doc followed, Marty closed the distance between them with a fierce, determined kiss.

"God," Marty said, as if all he wanted to do was kiss him, but the words kept coming. "It was hell." Another kiss, this one pressed to the corner of Doc's mouth. "I _hated_ it." And _another_ , lingering. "I felt so guilty I put myself in her shoes, only I kept imagining it was you doing the dumping. It was almost worse than the nightmares, Doc. _Almost_."

"That kind of useless self-torture will get you nowhere," Doc chided, kissing him in return. Marty was still trembling a little, too worked up for Doc's liking. "Try not to think about it. Listen to me instead."

"God, I used that stupid line," Marty lamented, "that stupid _it's not you, it's me_ crap. I mean, who _says_ that? I feel like a tool just _thinking_ about it."

"To be fair," Doc pointed out, "it _was_ you. So it was at least the truth." He reconsidered his words, stroking Marty's hair. "I don't mean that as an insult. I mean you've _changed_."

"Yeah, I guess…" Marty sighed, tugging the covers up over both of them, burrowing into Doc. "She _did_ have shit to say about how I'd been spending more and more time with you. She said even the Pinheads were starting to feel neglected—can you believe it? I guess I wasn't as good at managing my social calendar in this timeline as I thought. She said she needs somebody who'll _be_ there for her."

"You've been here for me," Doc reassured him, stroking Marty's back. "Above and _beyond_."

Marty nodded in agreement. "Yeah, and that's how I know I've made the right decision. It just...hurt. There was no way it was ever _not_ going to hurt. We'd been dating for a year and a half."

"You and Jennifer were good friends before you were anything else, unless I'm very much mistaken," Doc reminded him. "I think you'll be just fine."

"Hell _yeah_ we were friends first," said Marty, sounding relieved. "I don't think I could just date some random…" He nuzzled Doc's earlobe, kissing the sensitive spot just beneath it. "I'm so fucking _tired_ , Doc," he sighed, yawning, his body tense and apologetic. "Can we just _sleep_?"

Doc reached across him for the light on the nightstand, snagging the chain and clicking it out. "We can do whatever your heart desires," he murmured, resting his cheek against the top of Marty's head.

"I want you to hold me until your stupid alarms go off at ass o'clock in the morning, how's that?"

"That," Doc promised, settling in for the handful of precious hours they had, "I can certainly do."

 

 

**Friday, November 8, 1985**

"Doc, I got an A on my English test," Marty said numbly, holding some stapled pages in one hand, looking absolutely _miserable_. "Who knew _I_ knew so much about Shakespeare? Certainly not me."

Doc frowned, reaching for him, ushering him inside. He waited for Marty to drop his backpack and lean his skateboard against one of the workbenches before he placed both hands on Marty's shoulders, guiding him over to the well-worn red armchair. Marty sat down after a slight nudge, accepting the can of Pepsi Free that Doc slid into his hand. "Ordinarily, I'd be all in favor of a grade like that," said Doc, carefully, "but this somehow doesn't sound good?"

Marty heaved a sigh that felt, to Doc, like it had originated in the soles of Marty's shoes. "I didn't study for this test, Doc. I was barely able to string two words together for the essay part."

Doc frowned, taking a seat on the low coffee table opposite him, motioning for the test. His gaze landed first on the _A_ written in red pen just to the left of Marty's name, the date of the test ( _October 20th_ ), and that his class was third period. The first page was the usual mess of numbered multiple choice answers, some short answers (one of them, Marty had gotten wrong), but it was the second and _third_ pages that made Doc raise his eyebrows.

He was used to seeing Marty's handwriting—pretty standard, at least whenever Marty took notes for him on an experiment that he couldn't directly oversee—but he'd never seen so _much_ of it before. There were a few blank lines between the first and second paragraphs, but the paragraphs were fairly substantial. The essay covered symbolism in _King Lear_ and how it compared to some other text they covered in class (English had never been one of Doc's favorite subjects), but there were a number of remarks in the margins mentioning _Excellent use of in-class discussion material_ and one paragraph littered with enthusiastic checkmarks.

When Doc looked up from the test, he saw that Marty was rubbing his eyes with the heels of his hands.

"Marty?" Doc asked, unable to deny his confusion. "This appears to be excellent work."

Marty rubbed his face a few times before glancing at Doc again. He looked _exhausted_. "It's like this in all of my classes, Doc. It turns out I'm a straight-A student."

"I don't want you to think I'm not taking your concerns seriously, but isn't that a good thing?" Doc asked gently.

Marty winced as if this revelation physically pained him. "This is the new _normal_ , Doc. In the original timeline, I did all right—if I got a D, I'd get in trouble with my parents, but nothing major. But I can't keep this up! I'm not this— _this_ —" He gestured at the test in Doc's hands. "I'm not him! I'm not the super-genius Marty who can do this kind of shit!"

Doc set aside the test, and gripped Marty's shoulders firmly. "It's all right, Marty."

"How?" Marty's jaw tightened. "The next time I take a test, they're gonna know, Doc! They're gonna know that I'm not this version of myself, and—"

"Marty," Doc said firmly, trying to calm him. "Close your eyes, and take a deep breath."

Marty did as he was told, his breath evening somewhat. "Okay, I did. So now what?"

"Now, you're going to listen to me," Doc said, keeping his voice as calm as possible. "When you changed history in 1955, you created a timeline in which things are different, yes, but not _impossible_. You've always had the potential to be this version of yourself."

Marty's eyes popped open to give Doc a suspicious stare. "What do you mean?"

"I mean," Doc began, gesturing for Marty to relax, "that you wouldn't have been able to make those grades before you went back to 1955 if you didn't have the _ability_ to do so."

"So are you're saying that all those times that I actually busted my ass and still got a B were my fault for not trying hard enough?" Marty asked flatly.

"Yes and no," Doc admitted. "No matter what timeline we're in, you're always going to be _you_. You're a bright young man, and, _yes_ , if you worked hard in school, I believe you'd be fully capable of making straight-A marks. Are you with me so far?"

Marty nodded, still frowning, but he didn't look like he was about to shut down.

"Now, in the original timeline, your home-life wasn't pleasant, and your family didn't have a lot of money. This was primarily because your father allowed Biff to bully him at work, am I correct?"

Marty opened his eyes to peer at Doc curiously. "How do you know about that?"

"I remember you when we first met, and how fascinated you were with some of the more mundane items around the lab," Doc said. "The rest was conjecture from what little you've said over the years, and from the one time your mother came here while you were at school."

"Ah, jeez, what happened?" Marty asked, wincing. "Did she read you the riot act?"

Doc shrugged. "I think she wanted to make sure I wasn't a pedophile or something similar. When I showed her the lab and discussed how much you were helping me with my experiments, she calmed down. Personally, I think she was more interested in the fact that I could afford to pay you than in anything else."

Marty groaned. "That sounds like her. Uh—the old version of her, anyway," he corrected himself. "Jeez, I'm never going to be able to get used to that. Do you think that our memories of the old timeline are going to stay with us? Or do you think those will fade?"

Doc shrugged. "Who knows? It could be that the new timeline will eventually assert itself, and our memories will change to fit accordingly." He paused for a moment. "Where was I?"

"I could make straight A's if I wanted to, and, in the old timeline, my home life sucked," Marty said, annoyance creeping into his voice. "Nothing we didn't already know, I guess."

"More importantly, your family wasn't as well-off as they are in this timeline," Doc pointed out. "Tutors are considered a luxury, especially if they're being paid especially large sums to make sure that the student in question excels."

Marty's eyes widened in panic. "Are you telling me that I might've had a private tutor?"

"It's possible that you might've had several, especially after your brother and sister graduated from high school," Doc offered. "Your parents would've focused all their energy on you."

Marty stared at him, wild-eyed. "This isn't _helping_ , Doc! If my parents find out that I don't remember what I learned from the tutors, they're gonna know something's up."

Doc cupped Marty's cheek. "Which brings us back to the question of whether or not the new-timeline memories will assert themselves. If they do, you'll have nothing to worry about."

"If they don't, I'm screwed," Marty moaned, nuzzling into Doc's hand and pressing a kiss to his palm. "I can't believe I'm saying this, but 1885 was a _lot_ easier to handle than this."

"1885 also had highly unsanitary conditions, barbaric medical practices, and a very limited worldview," Doc said dryly. "The only reason that we had a higher standard of living back in 1885 was due to the fact that I'd successfully established myself as a blacksmith."

"Yeah, well, it's not like I have a lot of marketable skills to fall back on, Doc," Marty grumbled.

"You have your music," Doc offered, shifting his hand so that he could brush his fingers through Marty's hair above his ear. "Which reminds me—did you submit that audition tape?"

Marty winced, tilting his chin up and falling back against the armchair to stare up at the ceiling. "Of course I didn't, Doc. It's not like we're actually any _good_ …"

Doc considered Marty for a long moment. In the original timeline, Marty had often expounded on topics in which he expressed interest, although they tended toward either the latest experiment that Doc had been working on that Marty had deemed _far out_ , Jennifer, the Pinheads and their music, or, on occasion, a book that he'd recently read. Just as often, Marty had always mumbled about not being good enough whenever Doc had tried to encourage him. Jennifer had been the only aspect of life where Marty's desire for success had actually outweighed his crushing doubt.

"You won't know unless you try, Marty," Doc pointed out. "Sometimes, you have to take that risk." He found himself vividly reminded of the Marty he'd encountered in 1938, _especially_ during the encounter at the Science Expo with his father. Marty had talked about the fact that the younger generation needed to take chances in order to follow their dreams, and he'd actually done the impossible: managed to convince the old man to allow Doc to pursue his dreams. From where he was sitting, Marty had a long way to go before he reached that point.

"I know, I know," Marty said, and it really did feel like the two of them were reading from a TV script that Doc had already seen. "But what happens if I try, and I'm still not good enough?"

Well, if the program was going to stay the same, then Doc decided that the least he could do was change the channel. He leaned forward and brushed a kiss against Marty's lips.

"I just hate the idea that—" Marty startled when Doc took his hands in both of his. "Doc?"

Doc tugged at Marty's hands with all of the care he could possibly muster. "It's been a long day, and, right now, all I want is to feel you in my arms. How does that sound?"

Marty lit up, using Doc's hands as leverage to get up and follow him to the bed.

One intense hour and a few blissfully week-overdue orgasms later, Marty murmured, "I'll tell you a couple things I _don't_ miss about 1885."

" _Hmmm_? What's that?" Doc asked lazily, trailing a finger along Marty's bicep.

"The really crappy bed and the lack of heating," Marty said, making a show of snuggling into his pillow and giving Doc a lazy, contented smile. "Hey, um… _thank you_."

Doc raised an eyebrow at him. "What have I said before about thanking me?"

Marty shook his head. "It's not that," he said solemnly. "It's…that I usually have to pin you down before you'll let me take the lead. I'm thinking I know why you let me do it this time?"

"Why?" Doc asked, hopefully smiling, wondering what Marty's answer would be.

Marty shifted, snuggling closer to him, gingerly resting his head against Doc's chest. After the months they'd spent in 1885, Doc had gotten used to Marty's habit of looking away while answering a serious question after they'd been intimate. "Sex with you is something that I feel confident about. Yeah, I'm guessing we're probably doing really vanilla stuff here, but that's okay, because that's where we're comfortable, and we like it."

Doc hummed in agreement, running his fingers through Marty's hair again.

"And even if we wanted to change things up a little, it would be okay, because we'd just treat it like one of your experiments," Marty continued. "If it doesn't work, then that's okay. It's something we know to avoid next time."

"And if it _does_ work?" Doc asked, genuinely curious what he'd say to that.

"Then we can try it again," Marty replied, lazily tracing patterns against Doc's skin. "You've gotta repeat experiments more than once before you can say that they worked, right?"

"Right." Doc pressed a kiss against Marty's hair. "How do you feel now? Better than earlier?"

"Much better," Marty admitted, winking at him. "The sex didn't hurt, either. Thanks, Doc."

 

 

**Friday, February 14, 1986**

Doc set aside the latest issue of _National Geographic_ , checking his watch. Marty was running late, which wouldn't have been of any particular concern if they hadn't made plans to head out to the lake for the weekend. Doc had never particularly held with the observance of greeting-card-company-manufactured holidays, but Marty had _ideas_ about romance.

Resolutely, he resumed the magazine and read until, ten minutes later, the sound of Marty's truck pulling up outside set Einstein into a flurry of enthusiastic whimpering and scampering.

"Yes, Einie, I know," said Doc, indulgently, getting up to answer the door. "He's here."

Marty stood on the doorstep looking somewhat abashed, and it wasn't immediately apparent _why_ until he slung off his backpack, unzipped it, and produced what looked suspiciously like a box of chocolates from the only remaining family-owned chocolatier in Hill Valley.

"I had to scour the phone book to find this place, Doc," he said, shoving the box into Doc's hands. "One time, you mentioned this candy shop your parents had liked; I think you said it had been in the same family for like fifty years or something? Well, the sleuthing was worth it. Happy Valentine's Day, Doc. Now, are you gonna invite me in so I can kiss you or what?"

Doc turned the box over in his hands, unable to prevent himself from fixing Marty with a helpless grin. The place hadn't just been his parents' favorite; he'd loved getting treats there as a kid. "Get in here before I change my mind, Future Boy," Doc said, ushering Marty inside.

"You bet," Marty said, eagerly following him, kicking the door shut behind them. "In fact, I—"

Doc pinned him up against the door before he could say another word; both the kiss and his free hand fisted in Marty's shirt earned him an adorably shocked _Mmmph?_ Marty's reflexes kicked in after a few seconds, much to Doc's relief. He wrapped his arms around Doc's neck, gasping between kisses, and managed to yank the box of chocolates free of Doc's grasp. He dropped it on the floor and put his arms back where they'd just been, breathing hard.

Einstein, meanwhile, was snuffling the box. Doc could hear him lapping at the shrink-wrap.

"As much as I'd like to continue this," Doc said wryly, "we'd better get Einstein out of harm's way and hit the road. I expect to catch plenty of fish in the morning. We can have chocolate for breakfast this once as long as you don't expect me to make a regular habit of it."

Marty rubbed the side of his neck. "Sounds like a deal, Doc," he said, leaning forward for another kiss. Slower this time, more contemplative. When he pulled back to look at Doc again, there was something troubled in his expression. "I gotta tell you, this weird thing just happened at home."

Doc retrieved the chocolates and took Marty's backpack off his hands, sticking the box back inside it. "Here," he said, "tell me about it while we load up the truck. I'm going to need help getting this stuff outside; there's more of it than I remember. Since when did I have so many fly-rods?"

"Do you remember anything about how Biff used to be in the old timeline?" Marty asked, following the direction in which Doc had pointed, taking hold of the cooler handles. "Jesus, what _is_ this? Live bait? Gross, Doc." He carried it toward the door while Doc gathered up the haphazard bundle of fishing poles, and then followed him outside. "I ran into him on my way out."

"You ran into Biff Tannen on your way here?" Doc asked, setting the poles in the back of the truck before taking the cooler away from Marty so he could settle it there, too. "Why is that unusual?"

"Well, I _literally_ ran into him," Marty explained. At Doc's startled look, he admitted, "I clipped his car with the truck. See?" He pointed to a nasty scrape on his back left fender. "And I thought, well, _shit_. Here he is just trying to back out of the driveway while I've got my mind in the gutter, and I swear Dad's gonna kill me if the insurance premiums go up. Anyway, I was pretty terrified, but I got back out of the truck, and Biff was already out of his car. I remember thinking—" Marty paused to catch his breath, genuinely upset about the incident. "Doc, when he _looked_ at me—"

Doc set a hand on Marty's shoulder, guiding him back toward the house. "What happened?"

"He just looked kind of _confused_ ," said Marty, blankly. "Like he was shocked to see me instead of Dave or Linda or somebody. And then he smiled at me and said hi. _Smiled_ , Doc. Like—he looked so _amused_? Like I'm the last person on earth he'd expect this from."

"It stands to reason you probably _are_ ," Doc allowed, handing Marty a knapsack full of camping paraphernalia once they got back inside. "Nothing about this timeline suggests you're a careless kid."

"Anyway, I was about to answer him when my Dad came outside," Marty sighed, shouldering the knapsack. "He must've heard the impact; that kind of sound is hard to miss even when the damage is minor. So my Dad comes out asking what seems to be the matter, and then he stops and _looks_ at me like he's puzzled to see me with my backpack and the truck all fired up. It didn't occur to me my parents would assume I _didn't_ have plans, but, silly me, they were all over the break-up when it happened, weren't they?" Marty closed his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Dad totally ignored Biff at that point and asked me where I thought I was going, didn't I know Dave was counting on the company this weekend because _he's_ single, too?"

"This is certainly a fascinating conundrum," Doc said cautiously, pausing as he rescued the remainder of their gear from a slobber-happy Einstein. "What did you end up telling your old man?"

"That's the amazing part, Doc," said Marty, heading back toward the door to hold it open for him. "Before I could even open my mouth, Biff launched into this totally outlandish string of apologies about how he hadn't been watching where he was going, it was all his fault, _honest_ , Marty was just telling me how he's on his way out to the lake for a stag weekend with the guys." He shook his head, grabbing the stuff off Doc's hands, chucking it into the back of the truck. "Biff covered for me. He didn't even know where I was _going_ , and he actually, honest-to-God _covered_ for me." Marty shrugged and threw up his hands. "Why would he do that, Doc? I don't understand."

Doc tilted his head, considering. "What did your father have to say about all of this, anyway?"

"Apparently, I can't go out on Valentine's Day unless I have a date or a stag night," said Marty, shrugging. "It's like he was happy to hear it, I swear. He told Biff to get his insurance information to us as soon as possible, and that was that. Biff made some wise-crack before he got back in his car, oh, you know, who needs a Valentine anyway? And my Dad kinda cracked up and went, oh, you'd better not let your wife hear you talk like that. I just— _wow_ , Doc. You don't understand. The way things used to be, I'd half expected—"

"The Biff you encountered in alternate-1985 was nothing more than a potentiality that, thankfully, never came to pass," Doc sighed, tugging Marty in by the wrists. "I remember what a bully he used to be to you and your folks in our original timeline, but I don't think he ever raised a hand to any of you—unless you count what he did to your mother and father in 1955."

Marty nodded, glancing up at Doc. "Is there anything else in the house, or can we get outta here?"

Doc sighed. "I hope you're not trying to change the subject, because it's clear you need to talk this through," he said, indicating Marty's backpack, which Marty had slung over his shoulder and been carrying for all this time. "If you haven't got anything else, then we're set. Only Einstein left to pack."

"Yeah, and the canned food and the can _opener_ ," Marty said, cracking a smile. "I don't know, Doc. I was scared to death, but it turned out I had no reason to be. That's tough to square with."

"Come on, then," Doc said, leading Marty back inside. "Let's get Einie and his gear, and then get this show on the road. You've had another rough day, it sounds like, and I'm not about to let that slide."

"Can we have more than just chocolate for breakfast?" asked Marty, hopefully. "Before fishing, I mean?"

"We can have that and chocolate at the same time, for all I care," Doc said, holding the door. "After you."

 

 

**Tuesday, May 13, 1986**

There were no two ways about it: Marty's day at school had _sucked_. His teachers had all had it in for him, what with all the surprise instances of calling on him even when he hadn't raised his hand. He left without saying goodbye to anyone, fetching his skateboard and backpack in a rush.

The constant weariness that had become habitual since their return to 1985 started to ease when Doc's home came into view, but, this time, Marty sensed that there was something _wrong_. He couldn't put his finger on how he knew, necessarily, but as he kicked his skateboard into his hand and got the key from under the potted plant, it wouldn't leave him alone.

Einstein perked up the instant Marty opened the door, bolting for him and accepting Marty's head-rubs with jittery contentment. _Must be nice to be a dog_ , Marty thought. _Life's easy_.

"That's funny," Marty muttered, giving Einstein more of a thorough rubdown. "You're not usually so anxious when you meet me at the door, are you, Einie?"

Einstein sneezed in reply, and then trotted back to his bed, where he curled up and looked dejected.

"Huh. Hey, Doc?" he called, looking around, wandering through the familiar space. "Is something wrong with Einstein?" When he didn't hear a reply, he frowned. "Doc?"

Einstein whined in his bed before getting up, trotting over to the front door, and sitting down.

"You wanna go out for a walk, Einstein?" Marty asked, trying to calm down. Just because Doc wasn't there, it wasn't the end of the world. It just meant that he was out running an errand or something. He hadn't seen Doc's bike outside, after all, and, since the DeLorean had gotten destroyed, Doc had been stuck relying on either his bike or his twenty-four-hour-science-on-demand armored utility van to get around town. "Let's go for a walk and see if Doc gets back while we're out, huh?"

Einstein was his usual self during the walk, at least, sniffing mailbox posts and lifting his leg on the occasional tree. When he finally did his business on somebody's lawn, Marty cleaned it up with the high-tech scooper Doc had designed ages ago, and then headed back, not surprised when Doc wasn't there to greet them. His unease grew.

A quick search of the lab, which made Marty steadily more frantic the longer it took, yielded nothing until Einstein barked, nosing at a box underneath the bed. Confused and still worried, Marty yanked it from its hiding place and dropped it on the bed, uncomfortably reminded of the box that Doc had used to carry the plutonium before he upgraded the DeLorean with a Mr. Fusion.

He popped the catches after some hesitation, opening it to find a handwritten note lying on top of a set of folded clothes. Unfolding the note, he read:

_Dear Marty,_

_I'm sorry that I wasn't there greet you when you got home. If you're reading this note, then I have most likely encountered some kind of trouble and will require your assistance._

_For the past few months, I've been conducting a personal research project using more traditional methods. However, I recently encountered a dead end. Last week, I sent Clara a letter via Western Union, requesting her assistance. She arrived while you were in school today. She is well and sends her regards._

_With Clara's help, I've traveled to the date May 18th, 1938. In order to best help me, I'll need you to go to the library and check the vertical files after this date. If I've made the news, my alias for this trip is Carl Sagan. In the event you find some reference to me, put on the enclosed set of garments—they should be in your size. After you've found out what's happened, wait at home for a sign indicating how you should proceed next. It shouldn't be long, and you'll know it when you see it._

_Clara gave us a surprise, which we'll need to discuss when we see each other again and are (hopefully) out of danger. Please accept my profoundest apologies with regard to these circumstances._

_I love you,  
"Doc"_

Marty lowered the note, not liking the idea that Doc needed to apologize in advance about a so-called surprise Clara was giving them.

He lifted each article of the old-fashioned outfit one at a time to see what he was working with. Ever since Doc's thirty-five-year-old self had dressed him in that gaudy pink cowboy get-up, he'd grown leery of clothes he didn't know for absolute certain were period-compliant.

This time, though, he had to hand it to Doc—not only were they in his size, but these were things he could've worn even back in 1885 without raising eyebrows. Of course, thinking about 1885 reminded him of all the things he missed about living back then, _especially_ the regular sex. Shaking his head, Marty glanced at Doc's clock collection and figured he had just enough time to get to the library.

The Hill Valley Public Library was almost as big as the courthouse, with rooms that smelled like dust, vinegar, and old books. Luckily, the vertical files weren't too difficult to find, although he had a hell of a time hiding what he intended to do from the librarians.

Checking through May of 1938 hadn't yielded much except for newspapers he had to be slightly careful with. It wasn't until June 14th that he hit paydirt. His stomach dropped at the sight of Doc's startled expression in the photograph. He wore a suit and a straw boater hat, holding up an old-timey mugshot placard. Right next to it was the headline _CARL SAGAN KILLED_.

Well, if ever Marty needed to know what kind of catastrophe he was supposed to fix, this was not only setting off alarm bells, but also circled in red pen multiple times. It took some finesse to work the newspaper free and, subsequently, to avoid the librarian who was monitoring the place. He eyed the Xerox machine for a moment, wondering if it would've worked just as well, but decided that it was better not to risk photocopies lacking the capability to change as events were altered.

 _Now all I have to do is wait,_ Marty grumbled inwardly. _Great._

One phone-call home to Mom, along with a lot of _I dunno how long this study session is going to last_ and _I swear, I'll head straight to school in the morning, Doc's already set the alarms_ , got him permission to stay the night. While he would've wanted to remember the tactic for the next time he wanted to sleep in Doc's arms during the week, he knew that using it up now was necessary in service of a higher cause. He couldn't sleep in Doc's arms if Doc was dead.

The eerily-familiar crackle of electricity and a blinding flash of white light from outside at four AM woke both Marty and Einstein out of a restless sleep. Rubbing his eyes, Marty stumbled into the driveway with Einstein on his heels, and then _stared_.

"Doc, I swear to God," Marty breathed, taking in the ice-encrusted exterior of the DeLorean, completely baffled as to why it was there, but absolutely positive that it was the surprise from Clara that he and Doc had to discuss. "If you've gone anywhere _else_ in this thing without me, I'm going to _kick your ass_."

Einstein whimpered, cocking his head. He probably recognized the vehicle meant trouble.

"Yeah, I know, Einie," Marty said gently, stroking the dog's ear. "I don't like it either."

He kicked at the door handle to open it, stepping back to inspect the interior. Sure enough, the car was empty, but how the _hell_ had Doc managed to do that without it crashing into the house? He checked the pedals to see if maybe there had been a brick involved, but in the glowing lights from the control panels Doc had installed inside the DeLorean, he couldn't see anything.

"Well, it looks like I'm going after him," Marty sighed. "C'mon, Einstein, let's get you inside. There's no need for _both_ of us to go wandering through time."

Einstein whimpered again, but followed Marty inside. Marty changed quickly, folding the newspaper with care and tucking it under his arm before nudging Einstein back from the door once he'd opened it again. "No, boy," he sighed. "You've gotta stay here and wait for us. We won't be gone long, promise."

He gingerly closed the door and locked it before turning back to the DeLorean. Taking a deep breath, he sat down in the driver's seat and turned the hand-crank, watching the time circuits blink on. Having verified what he'd expected to see, he shrugged and punched in the date _June 13th, 1938_ , deciding he'd play it safe and arrive at four in the morning. He didn't need to be jetlagged as soon as he got there.

It wasn't until he'd glanced at the flux capacitor that he noticed the dictaphone sitting on the passenger seat. It was labeled with a piece of masking tape that had _MARTY_ scrawled in Doc's handwriting across it. Marty didn't hesitate to snatch it up and press play.

"Marty, if you're hearing this, then the new automatic retrieval system that Clara designed was a resounding success!" Doc announced on the recording, his voice tinny.

Marty's eyes narrowed. "We are definitely going to have a nice _long_ talk, Doc."

"Again, my sincerest apologies for not telling you about this, but your schooling should come first," Doc said with a combination of genuine apology and firm strictness that made Marty want to strangle him and kiss him at the same time. "We'll argue about that later. Now, allow me to explain the automatic retrieval feature."

Marty folded his arms across his chest, settling back into the seat. "This should be good."

"In the event of my failure to return to the DeLorean within an allotted time, I've programmed the time machine to jump to these fourth-dimensional coordinates without me. After this feature has performed the initial jump, it won't activate again. I'm sure that you've read my letter and made the necessary arrangements in preparation for this trip."

There was a pause in the recording. "Marty, I'm sorry that you have to come find me. And I'm sorry that I didn't tell you I knew this was g—"

The recording cut off, leaving Marty breathless. "What?" he demanded. "What the hell are you _talking_ about?" He rewound the tape and played it again; it cut off at the same point. "God _dammit_ , Doc, what the hell?" He slammed his free hand against the steering wheel in frustration. "This isn't how you make a relationship work, Doc! Just so you know!"

Marty closed his eyes, leaning back against the head-rest, trying to keep his breath slow and even. A few minutes passed before he felt calm enough to pull out of Doc's driveway and head out toward the city limits. _Everything's gonna be fine_ , he told himself. _You survived 1955 and 1885 and a ton of other unpleasant decades, for crying out loud. You can do this._

When he found Doc in 1938, Marty was going to give him a piece of his mind.

 

 

**Thursday, May 15, 1986**

"Here we are," Doc announced as he pulled the DeLorean into his driveway, "back in good old 1986."

Marty felt like he had been holding himself back ever since Doc had come to rescue him in 1938, but now he couldn't stand it any longer. He was either going to hit Doc with that piece of his mind or kiss him, but he wasn't sure which needed to come first.

"Now, what is it that's had you so—" Doc began to ask, but Marty stopped him by grabbing the front of his tweed jacket and dragging him into a deep, relieved kiss.

Doc eased back from the kiss with a look of contentment. Marty knew that they had to be careful, since it was only May, but whenever Doc looked at him like that, it just made Marty want to kiss him more.

"Not that I'm objecting," Doc murmured, questioning. "but you're usually more cautious than this."

"Sorry, Doc," Marty said. "I can explain when we get inside, but…let's just say I didn't want to wait."

Doc nodded, shooting Marty a curious glance, but followed him inside readily enough. Einstein greeted them both, enthusiastically snuffling around their feet before wandering back to his bed. "Einstein should be all right," Doc said. "I took him out for a walk before the award ceremony—"

Marty turned Doc to face him, and then wrapped his arms around Doc's waist, burying his face against Doc's chest. He closed his eyes, smelling the familiar combination of laundry detergent, Doc's aftershave, and, well, _Doc_. He felt something inside him unclench.

"Marty?" Doc asked, cautious, hugging him back just as warmly. "Are you all right?"

"I feel like a complete asshole," Marty muttered into his shirt. "I can't even begin to explain."

There was a brief silence before Doc asked, "Are you referring to what happened in 1938?"

Marty nodded, snuggling into him a little more. "I'm _so_ sorry, Doc. That must've been hell."

Doc hummed, as if considering something. "You know you don't have to apologize, don't you?"

"Don't have to—" Marty blinked, not sure he'd heard correctly. He pulled back to stare at Doc incredulously. "Are you crazy? Of _course_ I have to apologize!"

"For what, exactly?" Doc asked, irritatingly unfussed that Marty had had a one-night stand with his younger self _and_ had been a complete dick to him. "Making sure that I didn't make the worst mistake of my life?"

Marty scowled at him. "You know why, Doc. That must've messed with your head for _years_."

"If you feel the need to apologize for making my first time a memorable experience, then you'll have to allow me to apologize for not warning you in advance that you were going to do so," Doc said.

"Since when did you know—" Marty demanded, realizing exactly how Doc would know less than two seconds after he'd given him a fondly exasperated look. " _Oh_. Right."

Doc nodded, looking satisfied. "Even as we were talking about my past sexual experience during your first sexual encounter, it was difficult not to tell you the entire story. Still, it's dangerous to know too much about one's future. And I felt I would've been telling you too much about my _past_ , too."

"A little warning would've been nice," Marty grumbled, not meaning it as much as he probably should have. "Maybe it would've helped to know that I wasn't done time traveling just yet."

"Just like you tried to warn me about my parents' deaths in 1946?" Doc asked gently. "And that you were going to hurt me in 1955 unintentionally?"

Marty felt his heart drop like a rock in his chest. "I didn't want you to just…walk into it blind. If I knew that _my_ parents were going to—"

Doc set both of his hands on Marty's shoulders. "I appreciate the sentiment behind it, Marty, really. But feeling that dread for an entire year, without knowing what was going to happen or _when_ , was almost worse than the day of the crash. Thankfully, you didn't tell me exactly _what_ was going to happen, or else I might've done something drastic in order to prevent it. That might have changed the timeline _irrevocably_."

Marty gritted his teeth, guilt hitting like a one-two punch. He'd already messed up the timeline because he'd thought Emmett and Edna were just going to be a harmless fling. Knowing that he could've done something else equally as bad when he'd been trying to _help_ hurt just as badly. "I'm sorry."

Doc stroked his cheek, still infuriatingly calm in light of all that had happened. "Marty—"

"Look," Marty cut in tightly, his stomach twisting into knots. Jesus, at this rate, he was going to start _crying_. "Stop trying to make me feel better about fucking up. What else did I do wrong?"

Doc frowned at Marty with _worry_ in his dark eyes, damn him. "Your cautionary words regarding the future _weren't_ a mistake," he said.

The humiliation was severe enough that Marty had wanted to jump off a cliff out of shame, but now he wanted to shove _Doc_ off that cliff too. "Doc, you just _told_ me—"

"I _know_ ," Doc said firmly. "I know what I said, but listen to me. By warning me about 1946, you gave me a chance to verify who you really were in 1955. Yes, I was extremely hurt that you didn't remember me, but I also couldn't believe that you hadn't _aged_ in seventeen years, which was another clue that you really were telling the truth about coming from the future. Those two facts together resulted in my decision to help you."

Marty still felt like Doc was trying to make him feel better, even if the explanation made sense. "What about telling you about the flux capacitor?" he muttered. "Didn't that count for anything?"

"It broke through the anger and despair I'd been feeling over yet another invention failing to work," Doc admitted. "I could've told anyone in the future that story, but I had to know that it was really _you_ and not someone who happened to resemble you."

"And then I didn't get your reference about friends getting in the way of work." Marty winced. "Doc, I'm really sorry about that too. We keep echoing each other, don't we, and sometimes the wires cross."

"You had warned me that you wouldn't remember meeting me," Doc reminded him. "Seeing you not understand what was happening made the veracity of that statement clear."

"And that kiss right before I took off for 1985?" Marty asked, hoping to finally receive elucidation.

Doc winced. "Born out of desperation," he admitted. "I hadn't seen you for seventeen years, and then you come back to me exactly the way you warned me you would: terrified, confused, and desperate to get back to your life in 1985. I felt like I needed to do something to say goodbye to you." He sighed heavily. "Of course, I should've realized what effect that would potentially have on both of us. Had you harbored any romantic feelings towards me before that point?"

It was a simple question, but Marty felt like the two possible answers could lead to two _very_ different outcomes. But even as he looked into Doc's eyes, he knew he should tell the truth. "No."

Doc nodded. "I'd thought as much, given how long you and Jennifer had been dating." He looked like he was about to add something else, but Marty beat him to the punch.

"Doc, if you apologize for starting this relationship, I'm going to get _really_ pissed off," Marty said with conviction. "I'm officially a month away from being recognized as a legal adult, and I'm old enough to make my own decisions. We were together for three months in 1885, so, really, I'm probably _already_ eighteen. Either way, I _chose_ to be with you, and I haven't regretted it once. I feel sorry as hell for what I put you through in 1938 and 1955 and _any_ of the other years where I've fucked up, but I _don't_ regret anything."

"As long as you're certain, that's something I'll never feel compelled to do," Doc promised. "How _could_ I apologize after all the joy you've brought me? Surely you know it outweighs the pain?"

"God, what a relief," Marty sighed, sagging into his embrace. "And here I thought maybe I'd ruined our chances at having anything _completely_ normal ever again, what with all the stuff that's come back to haunt us. You have to admit there's never been a relationship like ours _anywhere_. Or any… _when_ , I guess, but that's not even a word."

"I can't deny that we're likely one-of-a-kind," Doc said. "Sheer probability is on our side."

Marty frowned, suddenly realizing something. "So, wait. I lost my virginity to you _after_ you lost your virginity to me." He blinked. "Doc, that's _heavy_."

"Not only that, but the same statement applies to me as well," Doc said, grinning when he saw how stunned Marty was. "Only we could've managed it, of course. I have no doubt of that."

"Let's not do anything else out of order, okay?" Marty asked with an unsteady smile in return.

 

 

***

 

 

They were just settling down to Chinese take-out—hungry and exhausted after all they'd been through, for _sure_ —when a knock sounded at the door. Marty raised his eyebrows at Doc, wondering if he'd been expecting any deliveries, but Doc's look in return was equally mystified.

"I guess I'd better answer that," Doc said, wiping his mouth on a napkin and getting up.

Marty was tempted to follow him, but he realized the smarter course of action was probably distracting Einstein with bits of chicken so he wouldn't trot over and try to get in the stranger's face. He could hear a hushed, intense exchange, followed by the delivery woman asking Doc to _sign here_.

Doc came back once he'd seen her off, wearing the most apologetic look Marty had seen in a long while. He held out a yellowing envelope for Marty to inspect. It bore Clara's copperplate handwriting.

"Do I even wanna know what this is about?" Marty sighed, setting his chopsticks aside. "I've had enough letters from the nineteenth century turning up out of nowhere, thank you _very_ much."

"I don't know what it's about any more than you do, so let's read it together," Doc suggested, making a detour over to his desk in order to fetch a letter opener. They ought to have been more careful unfolding the document, because the points at which it had been folded cracked a little when they flattened it against the ottoman. Marty let Doc sit in the armchair so he could stand at Doc's shoulder, frowning at what he saw on the page. Old-fashioned handwriting had never been too daunting, for some reason, but Marty supposed that was because he'd been living with Doc's for quite a while. The letter read:

_My dearest Messrs. Brown and McFly,_

_I trust you will not have been expecting to hear from me again so soon—that is, relatively speaking within the constraints of your own immediate experience. For my part, I should have liked to leave you to your newfound peace and happiness, but a matter of some troubling significance has recently come to my attention. It concerns the fate of Hill Valley and environs some hundred-and-twenty-odd years from now; even as I write this, I find myself struggling with what particulars I ought to provide. In the year 2002, with which I have had some passing personal trade, a scientific research facility located in the Great Basin will unleash some manner of devastating technological plague that would, within months, reach our fair city. I cannot become personally entangled in this endeavor for a multitude of reasons, not least because I may in fact have developed an emotional attachment of my own. This party dear to my affections and most high in my regard has implored me not to take such risks; and so, I am left with little choice but to enlist your aid. Please find enclosed reproductions of such documents as will provide you with the relevant date, time, and location of the catastrophe. I wish you every success in this endeavor, my friends, should you choose to intervene. I am not so foolish as to assume that the pair of you taking me up on this proposition is a foregone conclusion; however, I feel that your joint conscience and sense of obligation with regard to the place we call home is unwavering. And should you be lost, I take strange reassurance in knowing that I should prefer to lose you both rather than suffer the hardship of watching one of you lose the other. Something too much of this. You shall be in my thoughts continually until such time as we meet again. If we do not, then godspeed: I know every time and place in which I might find you again even long after you are both gone, and that is a comfort._

_All of my love and fondest wishes, as I rest assured I have yours,  
Clara Elizabeth Clayton_

"Aw, _jeez_ ," Marty muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose and squeezing his eyes shut so he wouldn't give in to the stinging in his eyes. "I don't think her intention was to lay on a guilt-trip or anything, but I swear the heart-wrenching stuff there at the end makes it impossible for _me_ to refuse her." Marty tapped the page. "She's quoting _Hamlet_ here; I just read it for class."

"Refusal would never have been an option," Doc sighed, re-folding the letter, reaching into the envelope to retrieve the remainder of the documents. He glanced over them, doubtless getting all the relevant details, so Marty checked out of the stress-loop to pet Einstein while Doc digested the information. "Well, the mission is straightforward enough. When do you think we should leave?"

"How about we finish eating first?" asked Marty, wryly, giving Einstein one more piece of chicken before picking up his plate and retreating to the edge of the bed. "Also, we need to lay out some _rules_ here now that we've got an operational time machine on our hands again."

Doc tucked all of the documents back in the envelope, sighing heavily. "I was afraid of that."

"You asshole, you didn't _tell_ me about this," Marty said, jabbing his chopsticks in Doc's direction, "and you went all cryptic in your letter. We need a no-secrets policy from here on out."

"Where once I might have said it's never wise to know too much about one's future," Doc sighed, "I'm inclined to agree with you. Secrets have caused us our fair share of grief over the years, haven't they?"

"No more secrets, and no more trips unless we go _together_ ," said Marty, emphatically. "Every time we've gotten split up, it's been no end of bad news, Doc. I never wanna travel alone again."

"Granted, even in numbers, safety isn't guaranteed," Doc said, setting the envelope aside, retrieving his own plate. "I've been considering this since earlier, and, honestly, if either of us owes the other an apology, I can't help but feel it's me. Inasmuch as you felt you behaved terribly toward me in 1938, I behaved even _worse_ toward you in 2015," he continued. "I gave no sign that I remembered kissing you in 1955 even though I sensed that it was weighing on you. I was so convinced that we were there for the sake of saving your future with Jennifer and the kids that mentioning it would've been—"

"Would've been the decent thing to do, Doc, _regardless_ of why the hell we were there," Marty cut in. "I mean, yeah, I forgive you. I'm at the point now where I can forgive you anything, but your silence and obliviousness were _confusing_. I wanted to know if I stood a chance with you, _any_ chance, because so much of it would've directed the decisions I made from there on out."

"Even if that future will never exist," said Doc, resolutely, "I still believe that we did a decent thing." However, his expression was pained. "I _am_ sorry for it, Marty, and for my actions during that time above all. Decent thing or not, perhaps we never should have gone."

"Hey, if we _hadn't_ ," Marty said, "I would never have had an inkling that maybe things were gonna suck royally for me and Jennifer down the line. You saw what a shitty wedding we had, I guess, and how disappointing everything was from then on out. I have to believe now that none of this would have worked out for us if we hadn't taken every single trip we took, _exactly_ as we took them."

"Your optimism is a baffling thing," Doc replied wonderingly, "but I won't question it ever again."

"For the record, though, we _did_ have to go back to 2015," Marty pointed out. "You'd left Einstein there!" The dog licked Marty's hand at the mention of his name. "Everything worked out."

"About this finishing-dinner business," Doc sighed. "I fear I've lost my appetite at this juncture."

"Well, _I'm_ not leaving for 2002 until my lo mein is gone," Marty said, and kept eating.

 

 

**Epilogue: Saturday, May 17, 1986**

Marty had always hated dreams where he knew he was dreaming, because he could never change what was happening in them. It was like being stranded somewhere with a broken DeLorean, only worse.

 _He heard the gunshot go off and saw Doc go down before Julia Foreman ordered the swarm to take over Doc's body. But instead of the swarm advancing on him like it had before, it coalesced into a grimy, hulking man wearing old-fashioned clothes and carrying a gun._ You're Mad Dog Tannen, _he thought blankly as Doc rose from the spot in which he'd fallen. Still looking angry and determined, Doc faced down Mad Dog, lifting his hand as if he were aiming a gun at him. Marty's hand rose at the same time, as if of its own accord, holding a gun and pointing it at Mad Dog._

_"It's either the hand or the head, Marty," Doc said to him. "You've got a decision to make."_

_"What if I don't want to shoot?" Marty shouted, watching as his thumb eased back the hammer._

_"Then things are gonna go bad for you," Mad Dog growled at Doc. "Just you watch, blacksmith."_

_"Would you really let me die, Marty?" Doc asked, his eyes fixed on Mad Dog._

_"No—of course not!" Marty said frantically. "How could you even ask me that?"_

_"You got to the count of three, McFly," Mad Dog drawled. "Hand or head?"_

_Marty's vision narrowed to the gun in Mad Dog's hand, his finger-muscles tensing._

_"No!" Marty shouted. He watched in horror as his arm swung around, pointed the gun at Doc's chest, and fired. He wanted to drop the gun so_ badly _, but found he still wasn't in control of his limbs. "_ Doc! _"_

_Doc recoiled, looking startled. His hat flew off, revealing short hair, glasses, and a pristine lab coat. "Now, Martin, that was a foolish thing to do, don't you agree?"_

_"Citizen Brown?" Marty gasped. "What—but I fixed that! I changed history!"_

_"You_ fixed _it. You did it against my expressed wishes!" Citizen Brown said sharply, scowling and advancing on him while waving away Mad Dog, who had turned into Biff in his stupid polo shirt. "You decided my significant other for me! How many times have I told you that I didn't invent the time machine for personal gain?"_

_"I didn't!" Marty screamed, his hand lifting again. "Edna was no good for you—"_

_"And you're any_ better _?" Citizen Brown sneered. "Or is Clara, for that matter?"_

_Marty fired again, screaming as he watched Citizen Brown turn back into Doc. "Doc? Oh, God, Doc!"_

_"Marty…" Doc said weakly, clutching at his chest, which was where the first shot had landed. He staggered and fell as he ought to have done when the first shot hit, and when the bloodstain spread, Marty could see that the fabric it stained was white. Doc_ wasn't _Doc, not anymore. Marty would've known that shock of wild auburn hair anywhere, would have recognized that pale, freckled face long after he'd forgotten his own name. "Or is...your name Michael after all?" he rasped._

Marty's eyes snapped open in pitch-darkness. He was screaming, or _trying_ to scream, but no sound escaped his lips. He tried to move his limbs and failed, unable to thrash against Doc's arm wrapped securely around his waist. After a few seconds, he managed a strangled whimper.

Doc stirred, his arm around Marty tightening. "Is everything all right? Did I wake you?"

Marty tried again, and, finally, it felt like something in his throat had been unlocked. "No," he panted, "but I think I need some help here, Doc. Am I awake, or is this just another—"

"Unless we're far more deeply entrenched in each other's heads than I generally assume," Doc said, his tone sleep-roughened, yet soothing, "then I severely doubt this is another dream. You're safe."

Marty tried shifting in bed, and then breathed a sigh of relief when he felt his limbs respond. Using his newfound freedom, he shifted and rolled over until he was pressed against Doc's chest. "Good."

"Do you want to talk about it?" Doc asked, his hand mapping Marty's changed geography before gathering him close. "I can't stand that you've been…having nightmares at home with no recourse to venting." He sounded startled. "You've been having them since we came back, haven't you?"

Marty inhaled slowly, thinking back to the dream, feeling the weight of previously-suppressed memories settling in his mind. "Yeah. Because I shot Mad Dog Tannen in the hand to save your life."

"Since you _shot_ him?" There was a long, revelatory silence. "Great Scott. Yes, it's coming back to me now."

"There's something else," Marty said slowly, tentatively letting his hand creep up from Doc's hip until he encountered Doc's bare chest. "What do you remember about 1938?"

"Marty, I know that you changed my personal timeline when you came to rescue me in 1938, but…" Doc's voice trailed off in wonder, as if something _else_ had begun to come back.

"Doc?" Marty asked reluctantly, not sure whether interrupting him was a good idea or not.

" _Michael_ —Marty, you were—" Doc touched Marty's face, his cheek, his hair. "Great _Scott_. No wonder I couldn't keep my hands off you in 1885." Marty felt Doc press a soft kiss to his forehead. "I must've been making up for lost time."

"I can't seem to forgive myself for how long you ended up waiting for me, Doc," Marty whispered. "And it hurts like hell to admit this, but I was _so tempted to stay_. If I'd remained in 1938, we could've had a life together. A life where neither one of us would've caused the other any inconvenience by being _too fucking young_ —"

"Come now," Doc chided gently. "If your age is an inconvenience to me, then mine is to you."

"Yeah, but at least you're _legal_ ," Marty shot back. "I'm the one who's a problem here."

"My point is, neither one of us is a _problem_ ," Doc said. "These are just facts around which we'll have to work until such time as the law comes to its senses. And that's less than a month off."

"If I hadn't walked out of your bedroom that night, I _swear_ I'd have never left 1938 at all."

"Then it's quite fortunate that you did. Neither of us could have predicted the way my life might have been altered with your continued presence in it." Doc paused before adding in a lower, more confessional tone, "If I had seen you that night in 1938 the way I saw you that _morning_ in 1885, I couldn't have let you go. I would have tried to go with you. I would've followed you _anywhere_."

Marty thought about that for a long, hard moment before he couldn't stand the weight of it any longer. Instead, he grumbled, "I think you should've warned me about one thing, Doc."

"Oh?" Doc asked, sounding curious and vaguely worried all at once. "And what's that?"

"That you were a redhead," Marty said accusingly. "You _know_ I have a weakness. You're lucky I didn't start flirting with you the second I laid eyes on you."

"What makes you think you didn't?" Doc asked, amused, like he knew something Marty didn't.

"Wait, _what_? I didn't flirt with you," Marty protested. "At least not that I remember!"

"Asking me to knock off work early to go drink _beer_? And then when you remembered that we weren't old enough to drink—or possibly you remembered that alcohol was still illegal at the local level—you changed it to getting _sodas_? If one of us had been female, it would've sounded very much like a _date_."

Marty was grateful Doc hadn't turned on the lights, because his face was on fire. "Oh. _Um_."

"And here I'd been convinced you were settling for second-best," Doc sighed. "Will wonders never cease. Another reason I held my peace in 2015 was the constant reminder of Jennifer's presence."

"You're not a consolation prize, Doc," Marty insisted, "because I'm lucky enough to see the cute redhead, the handsome guy you are now, _and_ everyone else you've been in between. That's more faces than most people see when they look at their significant other, wouldn't you say?"

"When I look at you, Marty," Doc said, squinting a little at close range in the darkness, "I get to wonder who I'll watch you become, and, for me, there's no greater joy than anticipating the adventure."

"Well, as long as Emmett's still around," said Marty, softly, "and I think he _is_ , especially on a night like tonight…" He trailed off, gathering his courage; what he intended to do was going to hurt, there was no way around it, no way around words that should've been spoken forty-eight years ago. "I want him to know that I'm sorry. I'm sorry for a lot of things—sorry that I behaved the way I did, sorry that I wouldn't let him do what he wanted, sorry that I couldn't stay. I'd do anything to make amends."

"You were forgiven the moment I first set eyes on you," Doc whispered, his tone edged in strangely familiar, yet undeniably decades-out-of-date laughter. "You helped me pick up the folders. Nobody else in town would've cared to do so much as that. They'd have laughed at me and kept on walking."

Marty took a shaky breath and buried his face in Doc's neck again, kissing the spot in which he'd have given Emmett one hell of a hickey had time and circumstance permitted. "Doc, what the hell else are we going to remember?" he asked. "This has already been more than I can take for one night."

"I can face what memories may come," Doc said, "because _we'll_ be the ones who make them."


End file.
